


Thicker Than Blood

by annieoakley1



Category: Hunger Games (2012), Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Adoption, Child Abuse, F/M, Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-23 14:27:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 47,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annieoakley1/pseuds/annieoakley1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Not flesh of my flesh, Nor bone of my bone, But still miraculously my own.<br/>Never forget for a single minute, You didn't grow under my heart, But in it.' -Adoption Creed.<br/>Years after surviving her last reaping, Katniss gets everything she always said she never wanted.  Everlark.  Panem AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**The Interview**

The appointment is at 2 p.m., and I wake before dawn.  Since Peeta is sleeping in his own room again, the nightmares are back, and I never feel well-rested, no matter how early I turn in.  Last night, a part of me was tempted to ask him to stay just one more time.  But I couldn’t take anything else from him.  He’s already given too much.

Like always, he’s up before I am and already hard at work.  It somehow doesn’t feel right to go out into the woods this morning, so I dress and make my way down to the bakery.  When Peeta hears me in the kitchen with him, he startles.  “Did I wake you?”

“No,” I answer honestly, slipping an apron over my head.

We work together in silence.  I still haven’t spent much time learning how to bake, but after all the hours I’ve spent watching Peeta, I’m a capable assistant.  I stay with him until late morning, seeing him through the early rush of customers and waiting until it slows before I head back upstairs.  I’m too nervous to eat, so I make some tea and sit at the table Prim and Bryce gave us after we signed the papers.  It really is a very nice piece of furniture, and definitely the fanciest of anything we’ve bought together.  For the first time, I take notice of all the intricate details, like the tiny leaves carved along the sides, linked together by delicate rosettes that I trace with the tip of my finger. 

The tick tock of the clock hanging above my head is the only sound I can hear.  It’s louder than any of the sounds from the bakery below, noisier than Peeta could ever dream of being.  _Tick tock.  Tick tock._

By noon, I can’t stand it anymore, so I wash up and put on my mother’s green dress.  As I’m pinning my braid up, I hear Peeta walking the steps, loud as ever.  He pokes his head in the doorway and manages a smile, but he’s quiet as he leans against the frame.  There’s a part of me that wonders if he’s trying to think of a way to back out now before it’s too late.  Maybe he’s finally realized what he’s offered, and just what it all means.  Maybe he’s remembered that I’m not the girl he wanted to do all of these things with in the first place.

“I just talked to Delly,” he finally says, our eyes meeting again in the mirror.

I wait for him to continue, but he looks away.  “And?” I ask.

“And she spoke to the official when she arrived today.  They’re concerned that we’ve only been married for a month.”

“Oh.”  It’s not surprising, really.  Adoptions in our district are rare, but when they happen, it’s usually after a couple have been together for years yet unable to have a child of their own.

My mind’s racing with a million different thoughts, and Peeta straightens, stepping fully into the room.  “Katniss,” he says.  “I can handle this.  I’ll do the talking.”

I nod and try to finish pinning my hair.  “The woman isn’t going to drag this out,” Peeta adds, watching me.  “Delly says she’ll be leaving for the Capitol this evening, so the decision will be made quickly.”

“Well, at least we’ll know,” I say, turning to leave.  As Peeta showers and dresses, I sit in my room and stare at the wall until it’s time to go.

Outside, it’s humid, the sun hot and bright.  Peeta reaches for my hand, and our fingers tangle together as we walk toward the Justice Building for the second time this month.  When we arrive, a District 12 worker points us in the direction of the official’s office.  The door is already open, and Peeta and I share a meaningful look before we enter together.

The office is as dingy and depressing as the rest of the district, and the Capitol official stands out, with her magenta colored skin and obvious wig.  She rises as she greets us, and I’m sure she says her name but I’ve already missed it. I look past her green bouffant hairdo to study the series of posters on the wall behind her.  It’s more Capitol propaganda, this work featuring the community home, with close-up shots of the desolate children captioned with the tagline, ‘Sponsor Tomorrow’s Tributes Today!’  I’ve seen similar commercials running during the Games, urging the people of the Capitol to send help to the parentless children of the poorest districts.  If they do donate, I don’t know where any of the money goes.  It’s definitely not being used to help the children.

On the second poster, there’s one photo featuring a tiny girl that reminds me of L, with the same dark, matted hair and sad eyes.  I don’t recall ever seeing her at any of the visits, and I can’t help but wonder about her fate…

“Mrs. Mellark?”

I feel Peeta at my side, gently cupping my waist and squeezing to gain my attention, but I’m so taken back by the contact that I lose myself again.  It’s the most intimate touch since we filled out the forms at the Justice Building.

“You’ll have to forgive my wife,” Peeta says with a laugh.  “I don’t think she’s quite used to that name yet.  As far as Katniss is concerned, Mrs. Mellark is my mother.”

I manage to plaster on a smile.  “It will take some time.”

“About that,” she says, taking the seat at her desk.  “I was reading over your application earlier, and I have to say, I’m surprised you’re applying so soon. Why, you’ve only been married a _month_.”  She bats her ridiculously long eyelashes, looking at us expectantly. 

“A month is the minimum, right?” Peeta asks innocently, dazzling her with a grin.

“Well, yes, that’s true.  But surely you want to enjoy your time together now, first.  Perhaps even try for your own children?”  Her arched brows rise with the lilt in her voice, and my teeth grit at the shrill sound of her affected Capitol accent.

“Ms. Welldine, can you keep a secret?” Peeta asks, leaning forward conspiringly.  The woman looks at us curiously, and I can only hope that I don’t seem as confused as she does. 

“I’m not sure I under-”

Peeta smiles, cutting her off.  “Katniss and I have been married for nearly two years now.”

I have to look down at the folds of my skirt to hide my face.  Where on earth is he going with this obvious lie?  “But…how?” she asks, and I can hear her rummaging through her papers, looking for the date to confirm.

“Oh, it wasn’t an official marriage,” he says.  “We didn’t go to the Justice Building until last month.  But are you familiar with the marriage ritual in District 12?”

I look up to see the woman shaking her head.

“There’s this thing we do,” Peeta says, and he goes on to describe a toasting.  _Our_ toasting- the one that never happened, the one he insisted we didn’t need.  He looks over at me reverently as he tells her about this fictional day that we shared together, and there’s so much love in his eyes, and so many lies in his words.  He can still surprise me.

“To us, we were more married than any piece of paper could make us.  And we’ve certainly enjoyed our time together,” Peeta continues, turning back to her now.  “We’d have everything we wanted, if only we could have a baby.”

“You can’t have your own?” she asks, her voice softening.

Peeta shakes his head sadly, and again I look down.  “Katniss’s mother and sister are both healers, and they don’t think it’s likely if it hasn’t happened already.  So we’ve decided to open our home to a child in need of one.  The license was really just a formality we had to take care of before applying to adopt.”

“Well,” she says, seemingly appeased.  “I see that you own the bakery in town.”  Then she looks at me.  “And you help him run it, I assume?”  I nod along, because I can’t very well say that I go into the woods every day to hunt.  Suddenly I feel the need to talk myself up.  “I take care of most things around the house, too.  And my younger sister runs an apothecary shop in town, and sometimes I help her with that.”

“She also visits the community home a lot,” Peeta adds.  “Lately, she’s been there nearly every day.”

“For all the children,” I say.  “But especially L.”

Her brow furrows.  “L?”

“That’s what everyone calls her, from her case number.  We don’t know her real name.”

“And she’s the one you want to adopt?” she asks, again leafing through the sheets of paper on her desk.

“We’d adopt them all if we could,” Peeta says, and it’s one of the few honest things he’s said to her.

She smiles at us, the paperwork forgotten.  “You know, I don’t really see a point in delaying this any further,” she says with an air of finality.  “I’ll be heading back to the Capitol in a few hours, but I’ll stop by the home after I attend to some business about the reaping.”  She stands from her desk, and we both rise from our seats, neither of us sure what’s going on.  “I’ll inform the director that you can take her home this evening, if you wish.  But first I have to get a few more papers for you to sign.”

She leaves the room, and we stare at each other, stunned.  Can it really be this easy?  Everything seems to be happening so fast, and even though I feel overwhelmed by it all, I grin.  We were approved.  We can get her out of the home.  At least one child will be helped.

Peeta wraps his arms around me, pulling me to him, and I relax in his embrace.  “We’re going to be a family,” he whispers against my hair. 

“Yeah,” I say, my throat tightening.

_We’re going to be a family._


	2. Chapter 1

_22 Months Earlier_

The cake is larger than we agreed on, and lovelier than I ever imagined.  Tiny primrose flowers of all colors are scattered along the surface, set atop a shimmering bed of white frosting that is as untouched as a first snowfall.  More flowers line the base.  I try to find evidence of the knife’s edge on the icing, but there is none.  It’s more beautiful than any display cake that Prim ever insisted we stop to admire.  Not even the one I managed to secure for Gale’s toasting can compare, and I was in awe of that at the time. 

It’s absolutely perfect.

And it’s too much.

Peeta knows this, which is exactly why he took off into the kitchen as soon as he set it on the counter for me.  I call him back, but he either pretends not to hear me, or he really is as busy with orders as he claims.  Since the Harvest Festival is approaching, as well as a popular toasting season, I decide to believe him.  Besides, there’s a few hours left before I’m due at the Justice Building, and that’s plenty of time to go out to the woods for more squirrels to make this a fair trade.

“I’ll be back by four,” I yell out, turning to leave.  He acknowledges me with a wave of his hand, and I slip out the front entrance, the overhead bell jingling loudly as the door closes behind me.

The town is fairly busy, so I keep my head down until the gravel from the road replaces the paving stones of the square beneath my hunting boots.  As soon as I’m back in the Seam, I relax. Prim should be getting ready for her day, so I’m surprised when I arrive home to find her and our mother sitting at the kitchen table with a woman I vaguely recognize from around here.  She’s obviously been crying, her eyes still red and swollen.  I try to keep myself busy in the small space so I don’t interfere, but she rises a few minutes later, dabbing at her tears with an old handkerchief as she walks to the door.

“Stop by again if you need anything,” Prim tells her kindly as she sees her out.  She nods once, and then reaches to wrap my sister in a hug, surprising us all.

“What was that about?” I can’t help but ask after she leaves.

Our mother gets to work putting away some of the items from her kit.  “She’s expecting.  Baby number five.” 

For Prim’s sake, I resist the urge to roll my eyes.  She doesn’t like it when I say anything about this, and we both already know how each other feels.  I think it’s foolish and selfish to bring any more children into this world, where they’ll be served up on a platter to satisfy the Capitol’s taste for innocent bloodshed.  But Prim believes every child is precious, and she’s so crazy over babies that she now delivers more than our mother does.  I can’t imagine she’ll be able to stay away from that once she moves into town, and maybe that’s one of the reasons I’m not as upset about this upheaval as everyone assumes.  I just can’t picture her actually leaving. 

“I just stopped by to drop off your herbs,” I tell them, emptying my hunting bag of all the plants I foraged for earlier this morning.  “I have to go back out for a few more things.”

“Katniss, our signing appointment is at 3:00!” Prim reminds me, as if I could forget.

“I’ll be back in plenty of time.”

“Well, what’s so important that you have to go now?”

Maybe she wouldn’t be so whiny if she knew, but I’m determined to keep this a surprise.  Besides, I’m not needed at home while she gets ready.  Mother will braid her hair and help her with the dress, and I would only be in the way.  It’s actually a good thing that I need to go back out for more squirrels, since it will give me something to do.  “I promise I’ll be there,” I say to appease her.  “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

Prim comes over, brushing my braid off my shoulder as she smiles down at me, and once again I’m left wondering just when exactly it was that she grew up.  “You better not.  Don’t forget that you’re my guest of honor.”

I sigh.  “Prim, that’s such a silly tradition.”

“But it’s tradition,” she insists, and I know there’s no getting out of it.  “We’re leaving half past the hour.”

“I’ll be back in plenty of time,” I repeat.  I put my father’s old hunting jacket on again and grab my now empty bag, and I take off before either she or my mother have another chance to say anything to me.  My main priority right now is getting more squirrels for Peeta, not any of the toasting preparations I have no business helping with. 

Since the cake is both bigger and better than what we agreed on, I consider myself in debt, an idea I loathe.  Over the past week, I’ve brought Peeta nearly half a dozen squirrels and three rabbits, and I considered that sufficient payment for some cake for Prim’s wedding.  But now that I’ve seen the cake he made for her, I know it was nowhere near enough.  I want to get at least three more squirrels today, since I figure that’s what he likes best anyhow.  Then maybe we’ll finally be square.

Not that Peeta would expect or even want more from me.  It’s times like this that I really miss his father, who was always fair and never pitying.  To his credit, he _is_ getting better about things like this, and it’s no longer a hassle to get him to accept what’s appropriate for his trades.  Usually I have to haggle to get my due, not coerce someone into taking more.  Sometimes I wonder if Peeta will even be able to keep his family’s business afloat with how soft he is.

The fence is still off, of course, and after I slip under the weakest area at this part, I make my way into the trees to retrieve my arrows and bow.  It’s only a few minutes later when I spot the first squirrel on a branch just above my head.  But after I pull an arrow from my sheath, I pause. Will he really want _more_ squirrel?  He’s too polite to tell me otherwise, but for all I know, he’s tired of it.  It was his father who always seemed to have a taste for them.  Peeta might not even like it.  Maybe he never did. 

There are apples falling like raindrops, though, and surely he could use those.  Tarts and pies and such, I assume, and if he doesn’t have to pay the huge surplus to get them from the Capitol, he’ll make a much larger profit.  Apples are as good as coins, as far as I’m concerned.

There are plenty of apples on the ground already, most in very good condition.  As tempting as it is to climb the trees to pick the best, or to stick around to wait for the deer or other animals that will be seeking them out, too, I know that I shouldn’t waste any time or Prim will worry.  So I get to work, collecting the largest and least bruised ones available from the forest floor. 

Back home, I’m sure Prim’s already worrying over her long hair, and I bet our mother is swatting away her hands as she tries to pin it up for her.  Prim is and always has been as sweet as honey, the most kind and gentle person I’ve ever known, but even she’s not immune to the insanity that comes with toastings.  It’s just another one of my many reasons to be glad I’ll never have to bother with one.  Who needs that kind of craziness?  Especially when there are much more important things to focus on, like where your next meal is coming from.

I won’t begrudge this of Prim, though.  If anyone deserves a perfect wedding day, surely it’s her.  One of the greatest moments of my life happened last year, when Prim survived her final reaping.  One of the great moments of her life happened the day after that, when Bryce proposed.  Now that everything is finally settled, they’re free to marry and open up a new apothecary shop in town.  It really is her calling, even if it’s hard to imagine my sister as a merchant.  But they’re not all bad, I remind myself.  Bryce’s family is nice enough, and so are a few others I trade with regularly.  Then there’s Peeta, and his exceptional kindness…

And I’ll be fine.  Prim may live near the square after today, but it’s still in walking distance.   Sometimes, though, I have to remind myself that this is exactly what I wanted for her; she’s safe and happy, and she’s going to have a future.  Or at least the closest thing to a future any of us can have while living in this district.  The truth is, I couldn’t have asked for things to have turned out any better for her under our circumstances.

This past summer, the only person I knew who was eligible for the reaping was Vick Hawthorne.   Next year, Posy’s name will go into the bowl.  But Hazelle, Gale and Rory work hard for them, and they don’t have to take out tesserae.  The worry will always be there, but the situation is as good as it can be. Really, as of right now, things aren’t nearly as hard as they’ve been in the past.  There’s still struggle of course, but it no longer feels as if everything is a constant fight for our lives.

So why can’t I relax for even a moment?  Why do I still feel so anxious, all the time?

It’s easy to get lost in your thoughts while in the quiet peace of the woods.  But I can’t afford to waste the time, so I try to stay focused, nearly filling my bag to the brim with apples for Peeta.  Still, I’m distracted.  Then I hear the branch snapping behind me and already it’s too late.

I know it’s a bear without even turning around.  I’ve been in this situation before, but this time I’m completely caught off-guard, and without my bow which I stupidly leaned against a tree before picking up apples.  I know what I _should_ do, but the fear takes over, and then I’m running forward, the bag falling from my hands as I sprint to the nearest tree and start climbing.

I climb as high as I can, stretching out on a thick branch that I know can hold my weight.  I look down to watch the black bear peering up at me curiously.  If he wanted, he could easily come up here after me, and I can’t help but picture it slowly making its way onto my branch.  At least then my death would more likely be from the fall than an attack, but neither of those options is very appealing at the moment.

But the bear is more focused on the apples littering the ground, and it pays no mind to me as it eats greedily.  And slowly.  Maybe he _is_ waiting to see what I’ll do next, as he circles the area several times, occasionally looking up to watch me.  Mercifully, he stays on the ground, but time is passing quickly.

I can tell by the position of the sun that it’s near two, and I grit my teeth in frustration as I continue to wait him out.  Even if he left right now and I felt safe enough to climb down, it would still be a race to the signing.  Today is the most important one of Prim’s life, and I’ve already disappointed her.  She might not need me to provide all of her meals for her now, or to rock her to sleep with a song when she’s sick, or tickle her side until she laughs when she’s sad, but she _wants_ me there for her, and now I can’t be.

It’s suddenly impossible to not cry, and I sob from my spot up in the tree, no longer caring if the bear hears and stays.  My tears aren’t just over today, or in anger at myself.  I know it’s about more than being upset at missing the signing or letting down Prim.  It’s everything.  I’m crying because of everything, and because I never allowed myself to do it before.

When the bear has eaten his fill and lost interest in me, he moves deeper into the woods.  I know that right at this moment, Prim and Bryce are at the Justice Building with our families, signing the papers that will officially make them man and wife.  Soon they’ll all be heading to the building in the square they were assigned last week when they applied for their license, and they’ll be making their first fire there.

There’s no more time for me to feel sorry for myself if I want to see it, so I shimmy down the tree, hide my bow and sheath of arrows, and grab my still full bag.  I make it back to the Seam in record time, panting heavily as I wash up as quickly as possible and change into my only dress, the soft blue one that used to belong to my mother.  I haven’t worn it since my last reaping, over five years ago now.

Once I’m in town, I stop by the bakery to pick up the cake.  I always use the front entrance since the baker’s witch of a wife remarried, and it’s the oldest brother, not Peeta, who emerges from the back a few seconds later.  He’s quiet like his late father, but nice. I know he helps Peeta out sometimes, even though he works as a carpenter at his girlfriend’s family’s shop.

There’s not time to discuss the additional payment now, so I take the box and thank him, and head for the large brick building a few shops down.  There are friends and family spilling out of the doors, so Prim and Bryce must already be inside, which means I also missed seeing them cross the threshold.  I can only hope I made it in time for the actual toasting.

The hearth is still clean once I finally make my way inside, and I can’t help but smile at the sight of Prim in her rented white gown.  I place the bakery box down on a nearby table and move forward, and when her eyes meet mine, she breaks into a wide, relieved smile.  “Katniss!” she calls, rushing toward me with her arms out.  “Are you okay?”

I’m so grateful that she’s back to herself, more worried about me than angry over my earlier absence, though this makes me feel even guiltier about letting her down.  “I’m fine,” I say, hugging her back tightly.  “I’m so sorry I’m late, but I’m okay.”

She pulls back to look me over, concern still etched on her face.  “Did something happen?”

“We’ll talk later, but everything’s all right, I promise.”  I reach out to brush my thumb along her cheek, but the Prim before me now is a grown woman, not a helpless little girl.  “You look wonderful.”

“The dress is pretty, isn’t it?” she asks, looking down to admire it some more.

The truth is, it’s a little ill-fitting, both too loose on top and too short at the bottom.  And it’s not so much white as it is ivory after years of being worn in these ceremonies.  There are also a few loose threads I spot immediately. 

But it’s not the dress that makes her beautiful.  It’s Prim, with her bright blue eyes, and glowing smile, and her long golden hair, and porcelain skin, and her innate goodness that radiates from it all.  She’s tall and healthy and here, and that means I’ve done my job.  For all my own faults, at least I can take comfort in knowing that the world is a better place with Prim in it.  She’s my pride and joy.  My greatest accomplishment.

“It’s lovely.”

My mother and I stand next to her at the fireplace as Bryce and his family move to the other side, and together they make their first fire.  I am Seam through and through, and I stand out among all the fair blondes up front, so I look out at the friends who have gathered to be here with them today, taking small comfort at the sight of familiar faces.  Seam faces.  I spot Hazelle, Vick and Posy and we all share a smile. Gale and Rory are still at work, so they won’t be here today.  Usually the toastings are held on Sundays, but Prim and Bryce didn’t want to put it off a day longer.  That’s an easier decision to make when the majority of your friends and family aren’t miners with only one day a week to spare.

I watch as my sister vows to always be there for husband, and when Bryce’s voice breaks as he promises he’ll love her for the rest of his life, I have to look down as I brush away my own tears.

But as they slice the bread to toast in the fire, I panic.  It’s Mellark Bakery bread, bought by his parents.  Of course merchants can afford to buy the fresh bread, and even other food for everyone enjoy after the toasting.  Other food like cake, a luxury for Seam toastings but probably an expected tradition in town. 

Disappointed in both myself and my grand gift, I wait for his parents to present them with a cake that’s somehow even larger than the one I traded for.  Maybe I can still show Prim the one I brought.  After all, it’s beautiful and made especially for her.  I know she’ll at least appreciate the thought behind it.

There isn’t any other cake, though.  None I can see, anyway, but mine, which is still on the table near the front of the room, hidden in plain sight.  I go to retrieve it, and then I place it with the rest of the food, opening the box now so everyone can admire it.

“Oh, Katniss,” Bryce’s mother says, coming up behind me.  “It’s gorgeous.  How did you manage to get one?”

I’m sure most of the district has an idea of the kind of “work” I do, which consists of going into the woods every day and trading all I can, but I still try to remain discreet about it.  As I’m trying to think up a lie for how I paid for it, Bryce’s father joins us.  “Look at that, we’ve got cake after all!  Missy tried to order one from Mellark’s the day they applied for their license, and he said he was already booked solid with Festival orders.”

That’s funny, because that’s the day I asked for the trade, and he had agreed quickly, enthusiastically even.  Either he offered to make one after he was already overwhelmed with orders, or he realized my mistake well before I did and helped keep my surprise.  No matter, now I owe him even more.  Guess I’ll be going back into the woods tomorrow for more after all.  

It’s worth it though for the look on Prim’s face when she sees it, and Bryce is thrilled, too.  They both hug me again, and then set about cutting it.  It’s so large that everyone in the room can have their own slice, and as I watch Posy and Vick chewing happily, I decide to indulge myself. It’s as delicious as it was beautiful, and I don’t think there are enough squirrels in the forest to ever properly repay Peeta for it.

We all stay until nearly dark, talking and laughing as we celebrate the new marriage.  At sunset, I stand to say my goodbyes, hugging Prim tightly before I go.  Tonight’s the first night in her life that she won’t be coming home.  This is her home now. 

She thanks me again, “For _everything,_ ” she says, with tears in her eyes. As I wrap my arms around her one more time, I whisper how proud I am of her, and how glad I am that she’s happy.  Bryce kisses my cheek on the way out, and Mother waves, saying she’ll see me at home soon.

It’s a beautiful autumn night, but the air is crisp and I didn’t bring my father’s jacket to wear.  Still, I decide to go to the bakery, because at the very least, Peeta deserves to know how much everyone loved the cake he made.

He’s already closed for the evening, so I round the corner to ring the bell at the back door, near the kitchen.  But it doesn’t seem like he’s home, as all the lights are off except for the outside ones.  It must be nice to have constant electricity in town, I think bitterly.

As I lean against the sad old apple tree that can’t even compare to the ones in the forest, I try very hard to not think back on that day, well over a decade ago now.  I’ve never said a word to Peeta about it, and he never mentioned it either, so it seemed silly to bring it up.  Not that I ever would have anyway.  It took a long time after his father’s death for me to even work up the courage to try to trade, and he seemed as equally shy.  Things have only started to improve, and sometimes we even talk briefly during the exchanges.  It’s just common courtesy stuff, nothing ever of importance, but still, it’s something not worth risking.

There’s nothing at home for me, so I decide to wait a few minutes, idly wondering where he could be right now.  I don’t have to wonder for long before I spot him walking toward me, smiling as I push off the trunk to meet him.

“Hi,” he greets, surprised but seemingly happy to see me. 

“Hi.  I just got back from the toasting.”

He stands next to me, leaning against the tree as he shoves his hands into his pockets.  It’s strange to see him outside of the bakery, without his apron or a streak of flour on his face.  “How was it?”

“It was lovely.  Your cake was a big hit.”

He smiles widely at this.  “I’m glad.”

“It was a lot nicer than I expected,” I say, leaning back against the tree, too.  “Nicer than five squirrels and three rabbits.”

“Not really,” he sighs.

“I already have apples for you, and I can get more squirrels.  I’ll bring them by-”

“You don’t need to give me anything else,” he interrupts, and he withers a little under my glare before shrugging sheepishly.  “Hey, if I made a bad trade, it’s my fault.  I’m still learning here.”

“I’ll bring you more,” I say, and it’s the end of discussion about it.  I’m not going to take advantage of either his ignorance or naivety. 

“Fine,” he huffs.  “You know where to find me.”

This isn’t going at all how I wanted it to.  I came here to _thank him_ , not anger or insult him.  “Thank you,” I say, barely tasting the words in my mouth before spitting them out.  I sigh inwardly and try again.  “For the cake.  It really was beautiful, and Prim loved it.”

He visibly relaxes a little, settling back against the bark again.  “You’re welcome, Katniss.  I’m glad.”

“Were you really too busy to make another one, or did you just tell Mrs. Woodsworth that?” I ask.

“I knew you wanted it to be your surprise,” he admits, scratching at the dry soil with the toe of his boot.  “Even if you can never have too much cake.”

“That’s probably true,” I laugh, my heart warming considerably at his thoughtfulness.  “Thank you.  I didn’t even think about that.  I’ve been so…off, I guess, lately.”  I shiver with the breeze. 

“Do you want to go inside?” he asks, nodding toward the bakery. 

“No, that’s okay, I can’t stay long.”

“Well, here then.”  He shrugs out of his jacket and places it around my shoulders.  “That dress is pretty but it can’t be very warm,” he says, securing the top button. 

“Why are you feeling off?” he asks before I get the chance to thank him for the third time that night, which would surely be a personal record.

“I don’t know,” I admit.  “It’s just a lot of changes, I guess.”

“Yeah,” he agrees.  “It’s hard.”

I look over at him and then back at the bakery, where Peeta’s now all alone.  His mother lives across the town with her new husband, and I’m not sure they even speak anymore.  His brothers have both moved out, too, with one working in the mines and the other living above the furniture store.  It can’t be easy going from such a full house to being all by yourself.  At least I still have my mother, even if our relationship is strained at best.

“The quiet’s the worst,” he says softly, still staring back at the darkened building.  “Sometimes it can be very loud.”

It’s finally hitting me, the reality of the situation.  I’m going to go home tonight and Prim won’t be there.  Prim will never really be home again, not even when she’s visiting.  She has a new life now, and as close as we are and I hope we always will be, I’m not quite a part of it.

Suddenly I feel sleepy.  Actually, I’m exhausted.  It’s as if everything around me exists in some sort of dream, and I’m floating aimlessly.  All I can manage is an absent, “Yeah.”

“Well, you can always visit with me, if you’d like,” he says, and my eyes snap toward his.  I feel awake now. 

He just shrugs again.  “It doesn’t always have to be about a trade.  And to be honest, I’d prefer some company over more squirrel.”

“Okay.”

He looks back at me and smiles shyly, and now his jacket feels too warm.  I unbutton it, moving to hand it back to him.  “I should get going,” I say.  It’s already dark out and I’m sure he has to get to bed soon if he’s going to rise before the sun to begin the baking.

“Keep it,” he says, motioning toward his jacket.  “You can return it when you visit, right?”

“Right,” I say, putting it back on.

“I’ll walk you home.”

“That’s not necessary,” I insist.  “Really.”

He nods, his hands back in his pockets.  “Okay then.  So, I’ll see you later?”

“I’ll see you later,” I say.  We awkwardly wave goodbye before I turn to leave. Once I know I’m out of his sight, I walk much faster, desperate to get home even if it won’t feel like home once I’m there. 

I yearn for my bed, and I hunker down further in Peeta’s jacket as I make my way through the Seam.  It smells like the bakery, like freshly baked bread.  Like Peeta.

I’m surprised my mother’s not already home, but she’s probably visiting with Hazelle, or maybe she was summoned by someone in need of her help.  Without another thought, I crawl onto the mattress that I shared with Prim until tonight, and I allow myself the luxury of stretching out.  I fall asleep quickly, still wrapped in Peeta’s jacket.

The sun is barely up when I’m awoken by a loud bang on the door and the panicked cries from several men.  I watch as my mother rushes to them, and they pour inside, carrying the bodies of two miners.  The smell of burnt flesh and coal dust now permeates our small house, and I can’t look.  I can’t look at the blood or their worried faces.  I can’t listen to their pleas or cries of pain.  I can’t be reminded of my father now, not when I was in the middle of such a nice dream that I’m already struggling to remember.

So I settle back into bed, burrowing underneath the jacket and focusing on his smell.  I close my eyes and picture his smile. 

It's morning, the start of a new day, but all I want is to go back to sleep so I can dream again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on tumblr as cinnamonanddildo. I post previews and other stories there, and I'll be happy to answer any questions. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 2

“She’s craving strawberries.  I told her they’re not in season and now she just wants them more,” Gale says.

I smile as I continue to clean the kills.  Strawberries always make me think of Madge Undersee, and I haven’t seen her since the past summer, the last time I stopped by to trade.  Unlike most of the other girls in our class, Madge isn’t married either, and she still lives at her parents’ house, caring for her sick mother.  Maybe I should stop by just to say hello the next time I’m in town visiting Prim or Peeta.

“It’ll get easier after the baby comes,” I say.

His nimble fingers continue to work on the snare as he looks over at me, perplexed.  “I kind of doubt that, Catnip.”

“Well,” I sigh, “at least she won’t be huge anymore and always complaining about it.  So you’ve got that to look forward to.”

Try as I might, it’s hard to muster up too much sympathy for Gale when he’s going on like this, because I’m pretty sure this is exactly what he wanted.  Sure, things will be hard once his wife, Vera, gives birth, but they planned for a family.  It’s not as if they didn’t know what they were getting into when they got married.

“Yeah,” he laughs, standing and wiping his hands on his pant leg.  “It _will_ be nice to have the old Vera back.  She hasn’t been too bad, though, considering how uncomfortable she has to be.”

I shrug indifferently, though I’m sure he’s right.  It’s not as if I spend much time with them, but I’ve seen her around the Seam plenty of times, and I’m amazed she can walk without toppling over.  But it’s Sunday morning, and between his shifts in the mines and his growing family, now is the only time that Gale and I have together, so I don’t really want to spend it talking about his pregnant wife. 

It’s not that I’m jealous.  If I wanted that life with him, I could have had it, but I didn’t and I don’t.  It’s just that I knew things were going to change between us when they changed with everything else, and it hurts to be right.  I miss my hunting partner.  I miss my friend.

I don’t know how much longer we’ll have these Sundays together.  We’ll be deep in winter soon, and already a thin sheet of snow covers the ground, and the plummeting temperatures make early morning hunts nearly painful.  Weather conditions aside, I’m not sure he’ll want to spend the time away from home once the baby arrives.  Rory and Vick take to the woods now, too, and they can supply him with meat if he’d rather be with his new family.

Gale seems happy, though, and that’s all that matters.  I have to remind myself of this several times during our hunts, because otherwise I’ll just go crazy.  I want to ask him how he can stand it.  How can he stand to go into the mines six days a week?  How can he stand to bring a child into the world when he knows what could happen in 12 years time?  How can he stand to stay away from the woods as often as he must, when it was always the one place where we were both truly happy?

But I’ll never ask him, mostly because I already know the answer.  Gale stands it because he doesn’t really have a choice.  All of our lives have been spent doing what we have to do to survive, and that’s not any different as adults.  Now he’s even more bound by his circumstances since he chose to start a family.  The closest thing I’ll ever know to freedom is being able to decide that I don’t want any of that.  As dire as it might seem, it’s something of a relief to only be responsible for myself, to not have anything or anyone for the Capitol to hold over my head.  Until President Snow mandates that everyone reproduce, I at least have this.

I always tend to freeze up at the topic of Vera, my mouth settling in a thin line as he speaks.  My mother and Prim assume it’s jealousy, but it’s really not.  Or at least it’s not the kind of jealousy they think it is.  Regardless, Gale tenses as I do, annoyed that I haven’t yet embraced her inclusion into his life.  Soon we’re both arguing over the snares and the division of our morning kills.    It’s a lot like it was when we first met, which says something about the sorry state of our current relationship. 

He’s muttering something impolite when we both hear it, the tell-tale rustling in the bushes just north of us.  His eyes flit to mine just as my fingers find my bow, and we both wait.  In this moment, the only sounds we can hear are the beating of our hearts and the soft trek of hooves moving closer in.  I reach for an arrow just as Gale’s mouth forms the word, _Now._  

I have my bow raised and poised to release a second later, and I pull back to fire just as the deer steps into the clearing.  The arrow swims through the air in the blink of an eye, and then the creature is down, his last breath already drawn.

 Gale whoops in excitement as I try to comprehend what just happened.  The buck is by far the largest I’ve ever seen, and as I stand over him, I quickly count the points on his antlers.  Ten, eleven, twelve...it’s almost a shame to have taken him down.  But then my mouth waters at the thought of venison stew, and now I’m grinning just like Gale.

He leans down next to it, brandishing his knife to being the field dressing.  “I don’t think he even saw you,” he says with awe. 

We clean the carcass together, already calculating how much we should be able to make off this at the Hob.  It’ll require at least several trips each to take everything, but the bitter cold will keep the meat while we go back and forth with our haul.

If anything could improve our mood today, it’s this.  After three runs to the Hob, we’ve already made than a usual month’s worth of hunting, even after keeping a good bit of meat for ourselves.  We sell to Ripper last, and after she pays me, I offer the coins to Gale.  “No,” he says, trying to decline.  “This was your kill, Catnip.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” I insist.  He looks torn between his pride and his need.  “For the baby,” I say, pressing the money into his hand, and finally he gives in and accepts it.

I’m sweating from the excursion, despite the cold, and there’s blood staining my jacket and hands.  But I still want to stop at the bakery before going home so I can give some of the meat to Peeta.  I wonder if he’s ever tasted deer before.   Squirrels can’t compare.

As I make the trek through town, all the shops lining the street are dark.  Most merchant families are probably in their homes above their businesses, staying in and keeping warm.  But the light’s on in the bakery.  Even though he’s closed on Sundays, Peeta still spends a few hours in the kitchen preparing for the upcoming work week, since bakers never really get a day off.  Usually he’ll come out to greet me as soon as the overhead bell alerts him to my presence, so after I stand at the front counter for a minute or two, I decide to check in on him myself.  I normally wouldn’t feel so bold, but I’m pretty excited to share the venison with him. 

I walk around the counter to look through the window on the kitchen door, and there’s Peeta, chatting animatedly with Delly Cartwright as he kneads dough.  I haven’t seen Delly in a long time, maybe nearly a year, and it’s strange to see her all grown up, taller and thinner and almost pretty.  They smile and laugh together, looking so comfortable in each other’s presence that I have to look away.  Gale and I don’t have that anymore, and Peeta and I don’t have that yet.

I’m almost back to the door when Delly calls out to me, and I turn around to see her licking pink frosting from the corner of her mouth.  Her blue eyes are bright when she smiles at me and asks how I am, but I ignore her.  I’m too fixated on her flushed cheeks, and the way she keeps running the tip of her tongue over her swollen lips. 

She tries to call after me again, but the door closes behind me, cutting off her words.  If Peeta wants venison, then he can go out and hunt his own damn deer.

Snow starts to fall on my way home, and it’s the fat flakes that cling to your clothes and skin.  I’m still feeling sour by the time I make it back to the house, and finding my mother dressing the bandages of one of her patients does nothing to help my attitude.  Our house is like a hospital now more than ever, and I crave solitude as if it were a meal.  Even a few hours of quiet and alone time would go far in replenishing me.  I consider heading back into the woods, if only for some peace, but decide it’s a bad idea with the current weather.

“Katniss, have you met Winston?” my mother asks as she cleans the burns on his arm.  While we haven’t been formally introduced, I’ve seen plenty of him since the morning after Prim’s toasting, when he and another man were brought here by the rest of their crew.  The town doctor had written them both off, and the other miner didn’t live through the morning.  That made Winston the lucky one, though you wouldn’t have known it to look at him.  But my mother’s care in the last six weeks has gone far in his recovery.  We exchange a curt nod as she wraps a clean bandage around his wrist.

I start throwing together a stew for dinner, since I’m sure that Winston will be joining us now, too.  As I slice carrots and parsnips, their quiet conversation turns into soft laughter, and any happiness I felt earlier today is as long gone as the deer I took down with a single shot.

*~*

Days and weeks crawl by with nothing to fill up my time except visits to Prim and the freezing forest.  The few animals I manage to get are thin and frail, weakened by the harsh conditions and not even worth a trade.  Without a fat squirrel in my hand, I don’t see any reason to step foot into the bakery.  In fact, I go to great lengths to avoid it altogether.   It works out fine until one day when I’m coming back from an afternoon visit with Prim.  As I pass the front of Peeta’s building, instead of keeping my head trained straight as I’ve been doing, I glance over at the shop window, and in that split second, my eyes meet his as he talks with a customer.  I quickly look away and walk faster, but he’s out the door and calling my name before I get too far.  There’s not much else to do but stop, so I try to compose myself before turning around. 

“Hi, Peeta,” I say with what is probably the world’s least convincing smile.

“Hello, stranger,” he replies, and though his words are teasing, he looks far more serious than I’m used to seeing.  “Where have you been lately?”

I shrug.  “Around.  I just haven’t had anything to trade.”

He’s wearing his apron, not a coat, and the temperature is near freezing right now.  “I thought we agreed that you didn’t have to trade anything to stop by?”

That’s true, and there were a few times in the past couple months when I came in to just say hello while I was in town, and then we would talk about the weather or our families or any old thing while he worked. 

“I figured you were busy.” 

He looks back at the bakery and sighs.  “Did I do something to make you angry?” he asks, his eyes settling on me again.  He seems nervous, but still concerned enough to ask, and instantly I feel bad.  Of course someone as kind as Peeta would be sensitive to others’ feelings, and it’s really not fair how I’ve been avoiding him.  It’s not his fault I’ve been in a bad mood for as long as I can remember.

“No,” I say softly. 

He takes a step closer, and I just notice how our hot breaths are visible in the cold air.  “So you’re not mad at me?”

I shake my head, but I’m concentrating on the fog leaving his mouth and not the words.  “You should really get inside before you catch a cold.”

“Will you come with me?”  He’s bunching the bottom of his apron in his hands nervously.   “To talk for a minute?”

It feels like I can’t keep my thoughts straight, like I have to force myself to focus.   “Um, shouldn’t you be working?”

“I’m the boss, I can take a break.”  He spins on his heel to head back to the bakery, and I don’t think I really have a choice but to follow him.  The warm air envelops me like a blanket as soon as we’re inside, and as the door closes behind us, he turns to face me.  “I just wanted to make sure that we’re okay, and more importantly, that you’re okay.  I know-”

The overhead bell cuts him off as an elderly man enters the bakery, and Peeta sighs, glancing at me apologetically as he moves behind the counter to take care of the customer.  The man buys two loaves of bread and then leaves quickly, and Peeta tries to pick up where he left off.  “I know that weather’s changed, but I still thought it was strange that you hadn’t stopped by at all in the last couple weeks.  I didn’t know if I upset you or-”

The bell rings again and Peeta grits his teeth in frustration.  “I’m sorry, just a second,” he says to me as he goes to help the woman.

I watch as he sells a box of cookies to her, and then he follows her out, flipping the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’ as he shuts the door behind her. 

“You don’t have to do that!” I say, looking out the front window to see two people already turning away.

“It’s not like there’s another bakery they can go to.”  He heads to the kitchen, holding the swinging door open for me and waiting expectantly.  “I just have to finish up a few things back here.”

It’s almost hot in here with the ovens, so I shrug off my coat and take a seat in a chair at one of the long tables.  “What were you going to say?” I ask him as he removes a batch of cookies from a cooling rack.

“You were here a couple weeks ago, and I asked Delly to tell you to come back here on her way out, but she said you seemed upset about something and left without saying anything.”   He glances up at me, and then starts scooping dollops of dough onto a clean cookie sheet.  “I’ve been worried.  I almost made a trip to the apothecary shop to ask Prim about you,” he admits.

Oh, I’m glad he didn’t do that.  I’m sure my mouth settled into a thin line at the mention of Delly, since she serves as a reminder that I’m one of the few people in this district not somehow paired off, so I try to appear neutral.  “I must have been having a bad day then, but I’m fine now.  Are you busy with New Year’s orders?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

He seems appeased enough by my reply.  “Sort of, yeah.  But it’s still not as bad as the toasting season.” 

“Were there a lot this fall?” I ask, relaxing in the seat.

He shakes his head.  “I think there were actually fewer this year than there normally is, but it sure felt like everyone was getting married.” 

I think about Prim and Bryce’s toasting, and the memory cheers me up a little.  “Thank you again for Prim’s cake.  I don’t know how you found the time to make it so beautiful.”

He looks up at my and smiles shyly.  “So you really liked it?”

“It was perfect.  I’ve never seen a more gorgeous cake.”  I fold my hands together on top of the table, worried that I sound like a moron with my rambling.  I’ve never been very good with giving compliments.  “Not that I’ve seen a lot of cakes, really.  But it was even nicer than the ones you have on display sometimes, or the one I got for Gale’s toasting.”  I bite my lip worriedly, because I think I just insulted the other cakes from his bakery.

He doesn’t seem offended though.  He even smiles as he starts to stir the contents of another bowl.   “I actually made the one for Gale, too.”

“Really?”  I wasn’t sure.  That was a couple years ago, before his father’s death.  “Well, it was beautiful, too.”

“I was always partial to it,” he says.  “I remember being in an especially good mood while decorating that one.”

I don’t really understand his comment so I ignore it.  Instead, I watch him as he rolls out the dough of whatever he was just mixing.  When it’s flat and even, he takes a little metal circle and cuts out sections of it, and then he places them on another baking sheet.  There’s something calming about watching him at work.  He’s so good at what he does, so at ease here in the kitchen.  Every push of the rolling pin looks effortless.  It would take me minutes to do what he does in seconds, and even then my work would pale in comparison.

“At least toasting season is over now,” I say.

He carries the trays to the oven, and says, “There’s actually one more, next week.”  After he puts them inside and then checks the wall clock, he comes back to sit with me. 

“Really?  In January?” I ask.  The fires might make sense in the cold weather, but usually everyone stays inside once the snow starts falling.  It’s not exactly a popular time for parties.

“Mellark men like to do things differently, I guess,” he says, taking a cooled cookie and offering it to me.  My face falls as I process what he just said, and I decline the treat.  A toasting.  He’s having a toasting.  With Delly, I assume.

“Oh.”

“But I think Graham was just being considerate and waiting until things weren’t so crazy around here,” he adds before taking a bite for himself.  “You sure you don’t want one?  They’re really good.”

“Graham?” I ask, ignoring the cookie. 

“My oldest brother.  He’s finally making an honest woman out of Clementine.”  He holds out the cookie again.  “Come on, it’s gingerbread.”

I take it from him just to shut him up.  “Clementine?  The carpenter’s daughter?”

“Yeah.  They’ve been engaged for a couple years now.”

So Graham and Clementine are getting married.  Not Delly and Peeta.   I break the cookie in half and shove it into my mouth.  Peeta was right, it is really good.

“Anyway, I’m making their cake, too,” he says, and I stare down at the other half of the cookie in my hand.   When I look up, he’s watching me intently, an apprehensive look on his face.  “Do you like it?” he asks, gesturing to the gingerbread.

“I thought maybe you were getting married,” I admit, thinking out loud, not answering his question at all.  But I do like it.  I don’t think Peeta’s capable of baking anything I wouldn’t enjoy.

“What?” he asks.  “Me?  To who?”

I shrug indifferently, but I feel like a fool.  “Delly, I guess.”

He starts laughing at me, a deep belly laugh that completely wipes out any trace of the worry or nervousness or even frustrated anger he seemed to be wrestling with earlier, and I glower at him until he stops to retrieve the other cookies from the oven.

At least he’s no longer laughing as he moves them to the cooling rack and starts on the next batch, but he’s still trying to fight a smile.  “It seems like everyone is getting married now,” I say, annoyed.  I don’t know why he seems so amused.

“Well, I’m not.  And definitely not to Delly.  We’re just friends.”  He holds out another cookie that he took from the rack.  “Try this one.  It’s a different recipe.”

I take it from him, but I don’t taste it yet.  I keep thinking about how happy Delly looked when I saw her here, how I was sure his lips were pressed to hers only moments before I saw her.  “So you’re not dating her?”

Now he looks more perplexed than amused.  “No, Katniss.  Why?”

“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head.  “I just saw her here and figured you were together.”

“We’re just friends,” he repeats, watching me closely.  “We’ve known each other since we were babies.  But we don’t even see each other much anymore.  She only stopped by that day to tell me she got a job at the community home.  She was pretty excited about it.”

I really don’t want to keep talking about this.  His friend’s new job sounds like a safe new topic.  “She did?”

He’s still looking at me like he’s searching for something.  “Yeah.”

“Well, that’s good.  She’s really nice.  I don’t think most of the people who work there are.”

I don’t think he’s paying much attention to what I’m saying, since he’s studying me like I’m a problem to solve.  I brush my mouth with the back of my hand, worried that there are crumbs on my face or something.  “What?” I finally ask.

“Why do you care?”

“Huh?”

“If I got married.  Why do you care?”

I swallow thickly and look away.  The answer should be, ‘ _I don’t.’_ But the real answer is, ‘ _I don’t know_.’

“I guess I don’t want to be the only spinster I know,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.  It seems to work, since he laughs.

“Yeah, well, you won’t be.  I’ll probably never get married.”

“Really?” I ask, shocked by such a bold declaration.  Usually I’m the only one saying things like this, but at least it makes sense for me.  “Why?”

His eyes lock with mine again.  “The only girl I want to marry doesn’t want to,” he says.

So there is someone else.  I look away, and finally nibble at the cookie he handed me minutes ago, but it tastes like sandpaper in my mouth.  “So you’ll marry someone else,” I say between bites.

He seems sad now as he pushes off the counter to get back to work.  “I don’t think so,” he admits.  “That didn’t work out too well for my father.  I don’t know if I want to settle just so I can settle.”

I want to ask him more questions, especially about his father, the nice man who I traded with for so many years but never really knew, but I check the clock and realize that Peeta’s been closed for nearly 45 minutes already.  He might be the only baker in the district, but he still can’t afford to anger his customers.  “Peeta,” I say, “I should probably get going, since it’ll be dark soon.  But I could stop by tomorrow, if that’s okay with you.”

“Yeah,” he exhales.  “I’d like that.”

He walks me to the front entrance, and I make a big show of flipping over the sign.  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, and he waves as I step back out into the cold. 

My fingers and nose feel like icicles by the time I arrive home, and I hear peals of laughter ringing out from the sitting room before I even open the door.

“Hello, sweetie,” my mother greets me, but I’m staring at Winston, who’s too busy gazing at my mother to notice. 

“Hi.”

“Did you see Prim today?”

“I did,” I say, moving through the house to get to the back room.  “And I’m tired, so I think I’m going to work on the plant book and then go to bed early.  Goodnight.”

I shut the bedroom door behind me, the back of my head smacking against the thin wood as I lean against it.  My fingers find the lapel of my father’s coat, and I think about how much I wish he were here, and I wonder how different everything would be if he was.

The next day, even Peeta’s newest gingerbread recipe can’t distract me from the thoughts about my mother and Winston. 

“These are made with corn syrup, which is a lot cheaper than molasses,” he says, pushing the plate closer to me.

I take one and chew thoughtfully.  “They’re good, too.  Not as sweet, but good.”

“I’m going to try one more thing,” he says, scratching the back of his neck.

He starts on another recipe, the midday lull allowing him to work in relative peace.  As he stirs the flour into the large mixing bowl, I rest my head on my arms and watch him.  “Peeta?” I ask.  “Did it bother you when your mother remarried after your father died?”

He stops for a moment to think about it.  “Not really, no.  Why?”

As he rolls out the dough and cuts them into shapes, I tell him about Winston and my mother.  He listens intently to every word, and after putting the cookies in the oven, he comes back to sit next to me.  “I guess I wasn’t upset because she finally seemed happy,” he admits.  “And she never really was with my father.”

I mull over his words as he pulls the cookies back out.  My mother and father were ridiculously happy together, I know that much.  That aside, I still can’t figure out Peeta’s acceptance of his mother’s new life.  I might not understand much about their dynamic, but I’ve gleaned enough through the years to know it was not a very good relationship.  “And you want her to be happy?” I ask.  “You think she deserves that?”

He moves the cookies from the sheet to the rack.  “Everyone deserves to be loved, Katniss.”

“I guess it’s the change I don’t like,” I admit a few moments later. 

Peeta places a warm cookie on my plate and slides it across the table to me.  “Not all changes have to be for the worse,” he says.  I reach out to break the cookie apart with my fingers, and I stare at the thick crumbs that stick to my skin before sucking one off my thumb.  Peeta waits eagerly for my reaction.

 “Best ones yet,” I say.

Maybe change isn’t so bad after all. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on tumblr as cinnamonanddildo. I post previews and other stories there, and I'll be happy to answer any questions. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 3

The blacksmith’s daughter has a birthday coming up, and he ordered a small cake from Peeta for her special day.  The man told him that his little girl likes purple flowers, so Peeta’s attempting to cover every last bit of it in them, and it’s incredible to see him at work.  I know he’s grown up in the bakery, but he has a real talent for all of this, and his abilities go so far beyond anything that can be taught or perfected with practice.

I watch as he rolls out a simple white dough and then carves out pieces of the flower using these tiny knives.  He presses, pinches and twists all the parts together with a few flicks of his fingers, and then he paints them one of the several shades of violet that he’s created from the red and blue food dyes.  Everything about it is impressive.  Sometimes I think I could watch him all day, and some days I practically do.

As I sit at the table, he guides the knife through the dough he calls fondant to draw the individual petals.  In less than a minute, they’re transformed into a blossomed rose.

“How do you do that?” I ask in amazement. 

“Here, I’ll show you,” he says, coming around the table to stand behind me.  He surprises me by covering my hands with his and moving them to the small rolling pin.  “It takes practice to make it just the right thickness.  If you want to learn, maybe I’ll put you to work.”

“I think I make a better hunter,” I say with a light laugh.

We roll out the mixture together, Peeta’s palms pressing down harder on mine when we need to thin the dough out more. When he’s satisfied with the consistency, he shows me how to hold the tiny knife, and demonstrates cutting out the petals.  I fumble at this step, art never being a strong suit, so again he takes over, using my hand.  “And now,” he practically whispers into my ear, “You pinch the base of the petals together, and curl the ends.  Like this.” 

I try to concentrate on the motion, but he’s so warm and it feels like the heat radiating off his body is soaking through my clothes to ignite my own skin.  It’s like an inferno with these ovens back here and I don’t know how he stands the temperature.

His chest is pressed against my back, his chin near the crown of my head, and again he takes my hands in instruction. “Gently,” he says, manipulating my fingers to create a sugar rose.  I swallow in surprise at the end product; it’s not nearly as lovely as anything he’s created, but it’s definitely a flower.

“Perfect,” he says, his nose bumping my cheekbone.

I jerk back in shock and the delicate flower crumbles in my hand.

“See,” I tell him.  “I’ll stick with hunting.”

He smiles teasingly as he brushes the broken petals off the table and into his palm.  “Yeah, you’re fired.”

“It was nice while it lasted,” I shrug.  “But I think I’m only good for squirrel.”

He smiles wryly.  “I doubt that.”

“I definitely can’t do  _that_ ,” I say, pointing to the new sugar flower he just produced.

He looks down at the confection in his hand and frowns.  “This is probably one of the most useless talents to have.  Being a perfect shot, on the other hand…”

There probably isn’t any sense in arguing.  I know what I’m capable of and what I’m not, and the latter list is infinitely long. As he finishes up the cake, I rest my head on my arms, stifling a yawn.  Spring arrived early this year and I’ve been getting up before dawn to hunt.  I guess Peeta’s been up even earlier than that, but he doesn’t look as tired as I feel.

He puts the cake in the box for the blacksmith to pick up this evening, and then takes the seat across from mine, propping his elbows on the table.  “So, what else do you do?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Besides hunting, or visiting Prim.  What else do you do with your day?”

I lift my head and look at him.  “Not much,” I say.  Really, what else is there?

“So you just go home and go to bed and that’s it?” he asks, unconvinced.

“Well, no.  I make dinner, since my mother’s usually busy helping someone else.”  I stare down at my hands.  “Sometimes I work on our plant book.”

He asks me about it, but I don’t really feel like discussing my father at all, so I quickly explain what it is and what I do with it, then turn it back around at the first available opportunity.  “What about you?”

“I don’t really have a lot of free time,” he says.  “Errands.  Dinner.  Sleep.  Sometimes I visit the home on Sundays.”

“The community home?  To see Delly?”

“Well, no.  For the kids.  I bring them the week’s leftovers.”

Just the thought of the community home is enough to make me depressed.  “Isn’t that hard to see?”

“Yes, but not seeing it doesn’t mean it’s not happening.  Some stale cookies are the highlight of the week for a lot of the children there.”  He gets up to slice the loaves of bread that have cooled.  “You should come with me sometime,” he says. “Most of them are pretty quiet, but some really love visitors.  And they don’t get many.”

My first instinct is to firmly say no, but I’m sure that would make me sound completely heartless.  “Maybe,” I say instead, though I know I’ll never set foot in there.

“How about this Sunday?”

There are about a million other things I’d rather do than visit the home, and that includes listening to my mother and Winston talk about nothing for hours at a time.  Luckily I have a ready excuse so I don’t have to lie.  “Sundays are my only day to hunt with Gale.”

“I thought you said he hasn’t been hunting in months,” he asks.

That’s true, he’s been home with Vera and the baby every Sunday since she gave birth, allowing Rory and Vick to bring them meat.  But that could change at any time.  “He might go hunting this week,” I say.

“I don’t usually go until late afternoon, and that’s hours after you’ve gotten back,” he reasons.

Up until this point, stubbornness isn’t necessarily something I would associate with Peeta, but he’s not letting this go.  “Maybe I’ll go some time,” I say, hoping he’ll drop it. 

His shoulders slump in resignation, but he tries to cover up the disappointment.  “If you don’t want to, I understand.”  As he packages the sliced bread to put out front, he looks back over at me.  “But the bakery doesn’t have to be open for you to stop by.  You could come over for dinner, if you want.”

“Maybe,” I manage again, staring intently at the floor.

We’re both quiet as he gets back to everything he needs to do before the evening rush, and I hate that it’s an uncomfortable silence.  I’m sure he hates it, too.  We don’t always talk when I come by, but it never feels awkward or tense.  He commented on that once, about how our quiet is a peaceful one, and I agreed.  Now though, I feel like I should be saying or doing  _something_.

“Is there anything I can do?” I ask helplessly.

“No,” he says with a smile that relaxes me a little.  “Your company is all I need.”

 

~*~

 

It’s mid-June and sweltering outside, even in the early mornings, which makes hunts uncomfortable.  I rest under the cool canopy of the trees, protected from the relentless rays of sunshine, until I have to go back to the district.  I’ve got a bounty of plants and herbs for Prim, whose business is flourishing, so I stop by the apothecary shop first. 

She smiles sweetly when she sees me, and I triumphantly hold up my bag.  “I found nearly everything you asked for,” I say, and she thanks me as she comes around the counter for it.  She thinks she’s being smooth, but I feel her hand against my jacket pocket, and I grab it and push her away.  “Oh, Katniss, come on!” she says, attempting to stronghold me and slip the money back into my pocket. 

“Absolutely not,” I say, still trying to wrestle away from her.  But my once little sister is now taller and stronger than I am. 

“You know, we get paid for these,” she sighs after finally giving up.

I don’t care, and I’m not taking a single coin from her, and she knows it. 

I let her go through the bag, helping her preserve and put away each plant.  After we’ve bottled the seeds of the last one, I notice her crestfallen expression.  “No red clover?” she asks with disappointment.

I shake my head.  “I tried, but I didn’t see anything matching your description.  What do you need it for, anyhow?”

“Why?” she asks, surprisingly short-tempered.

“I was going to add it to the plant book,” I snap.

She worries her bottom lip.  “It’s supposed to help with infertility.”

“Who in the district could possibly want that?” I ask immediately, but then I see her face redden.  “Prim!  You can’t be serious!”

“We’ve been trying for a while now.  I figured it couldn’t hurt to use it.”

“Trying?” I repeat back, unbelieving.  “You and Bryce actually want to bring a baby into this world?  Even though you know very well what could happen to it?”  Immediately I picture a young girl, the spitting image of Prim right down to the untucked blouse hanging over her skirt, walking to the stage after her name’s been picked.  A whole new wave of anger washes over me as I realize this will never end, that I will never be free of the worry, not when Prim and Gale are determined to tempt fate. 

“I’m going,” I say, grabbing my bag and rushing out before she has a chance to reply.  

I have no desire to go home and face the woman who I’m sure told Prim about red clover in the first place, so I head over to see Peeta.  It seems that with every passing day, the bakery is becoming more of a refuge than the only home I’ve ever known.

He’s in the back when I come in, and there aren’t any customers around so I slip into the kitchen like he’s always telling me to do.  But I stop short when I find Delly back here with him, looking contrite before she sees me and smiles warmly. 

“Hi, Katniss,” she says, though she doesn’t seem quite as exuberant as she normally is.  I say hello back as I look to Peeta, who seems to be upset about something.

“I’m sorry, Peeta,” she whispers to him as she edges toward the door.  She tells us both goodbye, and as soon as I heard the font bell ring, I turn to him.  “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” he says, bending to lift the large sack of flour from the floor. 

I follow behind him as he hauls it to the storage room.  Now I know how annoying it must be to everyone else when I refuse to talk.  “Then why are you angry?”

He puts the flour, which must weigh more than I do, on the wooden shelf above his head.  “I asked Delly to speak to the Capitol official who arrived on the train today.”

“What about?” I ask as he puts away the rest of his supplies.

“I thought maybe one of the older kids at the home could stay here, since I’ve got all this room upstairs.  I figured they could even work around here some if they wanted to.”  He sighs, sounding more tired than I’ve ever heard him.  “I just wanted one of them to be able to get out of there.”

“They said no?” I ask, though the answer seems obvious. 

“They wouldn’t even let me file an application since I’m not married,” he says.

I follow him through the kitchen to the back exit and sit next to him on the stoop.  “This is it,” he says, holding out his hand.  “This is my life.  I’m 23-years-old and this is all I’ll ever have.”

My brow furrows in confusion, but he continues.  “And I thought I was okay with that, that I accepted it.  But I can’t even open my home to someone who needs it.  I just feel…useless.”

“You’re not useless!” I insist, horrified he even thinks that.  “You’re…the baker.”

He smiles, though there’s no joy behind it.  “Well if I wasn’t, Rye would be.  Or Graham, if he had to.”  He glances over at me, and he must take pity on me when he sees how inept I am at this whole comforting thing because his expression softens. 

“I’m sorry, Peeta,” I say, echoing Delly’s exact words because I can’t think of anything else.  And he thinks _he’s_ useless?

“I’ll be okay,” he says, looking straight ahead.  “Maybe I’ll take in a boarder or something.”

I play with the laces of my hunting boots, not sure what else to do.  Finally I settle on telling him that I had an argument with Prim, though I don’t go into the details. 

“So we both had a lousy day,” he says.

“Yeah,” I agree.

The front bell jingles, and we both look back.  “I should probably get going anyway,” I say, wishing I could do something more but knowing I can’t.

“See you later?” he asks hopefully, like he always does when he bids me farewell. 

“Later,” I smile.

I start for home as he goes to take care of his customer, and I worry about him the entire way back to the Seam. As angry as I am with my sister right now, I still wish I could be more like her.  She always knows exactly what to do to make someone feel better, whether it’s a broken bone or a broken heart that ails them. 

I realize my mother’s not home when I walk through the door.  Normally I would love the time by myself, especially since I’m annoyed with her, but I don’t really want to be alone with my thoughts right now.  The only thing to do then is keep busy, so I bear the heat and begin dinner, roasting rabbit and tubers with some wild onions and chives I picked today.  Once supper is on, I try to concentrate on the plant book, begrudgingly starting an entry for red clover, but it doesn’t help distract me.

About an hour later, I completely give up, and I set the book aside before I change into a clean shirt and re-braid my hair.  Then I tend to the food some more.  Prim hasn’t lived here for nearly 10 months, but I’m still not used to cooking for two.  Sometimes I divide the extra and spoon it into our bowls, or if Winston or one of my mother’s patients is around, I’ll offer her portion to them.  But this evening I’m alone.

I look around the empty room and my thoughts drift back to Peeta.  This is all he knows now, I realize, and suddenly I understand why he’s so appreciative of my visits.  Even my poor company would be preferable to this.

I know what to do with the extra food tonight.  Decided, I leave a short note for my mother that I’ll be back later, and I place her serving into a separate pan, leaving it on the cooling embers.  Then I take the pot and head to the square for the second time today. 

Back at the bakery, Peeta’s finishing his closing routine, and he looks up in surprise when I knock on the window. 

“Want to have dinner with me?” I mouth, holding up the food.

We eat in the bakery kitchen, Peeta providing a loaf of fresh bread, still warm from the oven, and real butter.  I can’t even remember the last time I tasted butter.  It’s possible I never had it.  I drown my slice in the pale, creamy goodness and my eyes fall shut when I take a bite.

He smiles as he watches me eat, but he still doesn’t seem like himself.  “I don’t know how I’m going to go back there this week,” he admits, talking about the community home. 

Maybe it’s the butter and full stomach making me so amiable.  Or maybe I’m trying very hard to be a decent friend.  Either way, I find myself saying something I never thought I would: “I’ll go with you.”

 

~*~

 

I remember seeing the community home kids around school.  They were easy to pick out of the crowd because their expressions were so hollow, their eyes lifeless.  But it wasn’t just hunger pains that slumped their shoulders.  It was solitude and despair, a complete hopelessness born from having literally nothing.

As difficult as times were for me and Prim, we always had each other.  When my mother was unreachable and my anger with her was immeasurable, it was Prim’s love, and not just an instinct to survive, that gave me the strength to go on.  I always felt sorry for the home kids, but I knew there wasn’t anything I could do to help anyone but myself and my sister.

I’ve always avoided going anywhere near the community home, but now Peeta and I walk straight to it.  It’s a big stone building that sits at the edge of town, and it looks bleak and cold even in the summer sunshine. 

The interior is no better, I realize today.  It’s sterile and impersonal, dank and dull.  The children sit and stare.  There’s no playing.  No laughter.  No life inside these walls.

Peeta told me before that there are about 50 children at the home now.  Most are older; some just recently lost their parents, while others have been here for most of their lives.  Then there are ones who aren’t reaping age yet, and a few who are even too young for school.  As I walk the main floor, I notice a door labeled as the nursery and I wonder how many tiny babies are here as well. 

But there are still families here, I realize. Siblings who were taken from the same home and now keep to themselves, all huddled together in separate corners as they find refuge in each other.  I look away from them, my stomach lurching. 

“Would you like to pass out some cookies?” Peeta asks me, holding out one of the boxes.

I shake my head and take a free chair in the center of the room, watching as the children see Peeta and slide off their seats to move gingerly toward him.  They gratefully take the treats, and he coaxes some of them into conversation.  But something about this place is making it very hard for me to breathe, and I don’t think it’s the suffocating humidity.  I try to calm myself down, refusing to distract Peeta from the children who surely need him right now more than I do. 

So I focus on the patterns on the floor tiles as I take deep breaths, and it feels like hours pass until finally Peeta is tapping my shoulder, letting me know that it’s time for us to go.

We’re both quiet on our way back to the bakery, and I thought I was feeling better, that just getting out of there was enough, but I can feel my throat tightening as I fight the sudden urge to cry.  As we round the corner, though, I lose it and I have to stop.  I bend over as the long-suppressed sob escapes, and then the hot tears are streaming down my cheeks.

“Katniss?” Peeta asks, alarmed.  He kneels in front of me, tilting my chin up so I meet his eyes.

“That could have been us,” I say, looking back in the direction of the home.  “If you hadn’t given us the bread, then that would have been us.”

He looks completely confused.  “What?”

“I never even thanked you,” I say as I wipe my eyes.

“For what?”

“The bread!” I nearly shout.

Finally there’s a hint of recognition in his eyes.  “You never had to thank me.”

I shake my head again as he grips my arms.  “You have no idea what that meant to me,” I start to say.  “It saved us.”

“Hey,” he says, rising to his feet as he continues to hold on to me.  “ _You_ did that.  I didn’t do anything special.”  I try to deny this but he refuses to listen.  “Don’t sell yourself so short, Katniss.”  He exhales loudly.  “You know, I can’t even count how many times you kept me from going hungry.”

Now it’s my turn to be confused.  “What?”

“If I or one of my brothers ever upset our mother, she’d send us to bed without meals,” he says.  “Sometimes we’d go days or even weeks with nothing but a little stale bread.  My father never stood up to her about it, but he’d trade with you if she wasn’t around, and then give it to us.”  He smiles shyly at me as he squeezes my bicep.  “So you fed me, too, okay?”

I nod mutely as we both start walking again.  I’m not sure what to think or say, and I’m so overwhelmed by everything that I feel dizzy.  So I move closer to Peeta as we go, because he’s always steady and sure, and I know he’d never let me fall.

 

~*~

 

Gale’s back home in the woods, and I can tell how happy he is because he’s uncharacteristically talkative.  He tells me all about his son, who’s growing like a weed and already sitting up on his own and smiling.  “Posy can’t get enough of him,” he says.  “She’s always over, insisting she help.  Ethan loves her.” 

He gives me a pointed look and I know it’s a dig at me, at how I don’t spend enough time with Vera and the baby.  I’ve only seen him a handful of times in the five months since his birth.  I still remember the night Gale came pounding on our door, looking terrified as he told my mother it was time. I stood sheepishly behind her as she gathered her things, still bleary-eyed from sleep and swimming in one of my father’s old nightshirts.  When my eyes met Gale’s over the top of my mother’s head, I knew that things would never be the same again.

“She sounds like Prim,” I say with a laugh, but that thought freezes me up, too. 

I’m actually thankful when Gale changes the subject to my mother and Winston.  “He’s a good man, Catnip,” Gale insists.

“I’m sure he is,” I say distractedly.

“Your mother seems to care about him,” he adds.  “She must have a weakness for miners.”  He looks away, mumbling something about how she’s obviously the only Everdeen woman with one, and I glare at him.

He has no idea what it’s like, anyway.  It’s not as if Hazelle has met someone else and started spending a significant amount of time with him.  I think I’m entitled to my feelings.

“His wife died, too, you know,” Gale says.  “It’s probably good for them both that they’re friends.”

“Sure,” I say, completely uninterested. 

“I just think you’d like him if you gave him a chance,” he tells me.  “I like him.  He’s a hard worker.  Not that it gets you anywhere in the mines.”  He finishes cleaning the rabbit and moves on to the next one.  “They just made Rye Mellark foreman, out of all the men on the crew.”  He shakes his head, bitterness painted on his face.  “But anyway, you should ease up on the guy, Kat.  They’re not going to run off and get married.  They’re just getting to know each other.”

I almost wish they would run off and get married already.  Then my mother could move in with Winston and I would finally be alone, my destiny fulfilled.  I’d try to find a place of my own if I could afford it, but I don’t have steady work.  The district won’t assign housing without a marriage license.

Maybe I could sneak into Victors’ Village and live in one of those empty houses.  I don’t think Haymitch Abernathy would ever be sober enough to notice he had a new neighbor…

“Speaking of the Mellarks,” Gale says, interrupting my thoughts.  “I hear that you’re spending quite a bit of time with the baker.”

This gets my full attention and I turn to stare him down. 

He shrugs.  “People talk.”

“Where?” I ask, annoyed.  “In the mines?  In the Seam?  I assumed people had more important things to do than gossip.”

“Just be careful,” he says.  “You’re as Seam as I am, Catnip.  We don’t fit with them.”

I’d defend Peeta to him, but it’s a waste of breath.  “We’re just getting to know each other,” I say instead, to see how he likes it.

He must not because he grabs his rabbits and stands.  “If you’re so eager for company, you could always visit with Vera and the baby,” he says.  “But I know that won’t happen.”

We’re still arguing by the time we make it to the Hob to trade.  As he barters with Sae, I feel a tug on my braid, and I turn to see Darius, the newly anointed Head Peacekeeper, smiling widely at me. 

“What did you bring me good?” he asks.

“Poison oak and spiders,” I say, batting away his hand.

“Hey, be nice!” he says, pulling a wounded look.  “I could arrest you for breaking my heart.”

He yanks on my hair again and I slap his fingers.  “I’m going to break something of yours if you don’t stop.”

“Fine,” he says, standing straight and tall.  “Then I’ll just go arrest your boyfriend for stealing you from me.”

Gale move next to me.  “Boyfriend, huh?”  I look up at him, expecting him to be angry, but he just looks amused. 

“You and the baker are the talk of District 12.  A love story for the ages,” Darius says.

“He’s not my boyfriend!” I sputter, grabbing my bag off of Gale.  He and Darius laugh, _at me_ , and I glare at them both.

“I heard you’re at the bakery every day,” Darius says, and my jaw clenches.

Gale’s eyes are bright with mirth, because there are few things he loves more than being proven right.  “I heard that, too,” he adds. 

“And I heard you were spotted at the square last week practically holding hands,” Darius says.

“We weren’t holding hands!” I say loudly, and it feels like every head in the Hob turns to look at me in that moment.  “We’re just friends!”

“And,” Darius continues, unrelenting, “I heard you went into the bakery last night after close and didn’t come back out.”

“Catnip!” Gale says, acting scandalized.  “I didn’t hear _that_!”

I can feel my cheeks burning at all they’re implying.  “We had dinner together!” I say.  “But I went home after!”

“Dinner sounds an awful lot like a date,” Gale says with a laugh.  “You’ll be at the slagheap with him before you know it.”

He and Darius crack up at this, and I hate them both.  “Shut up!” I say, stalking off in a huff.  Their obnoxious laughter rings out louder, and it seems to follow me as I leave. 

 I throw a dirty look at every single person I cross as I make my way into town, sure they’re gossiping about me, too.  I don’t even know what I’m going to say to Peeta when I see him.

As I walk through the square, I tell myself that I don’t care what anyone says, that I know what’s true and what’s not and that’s all that matters.  Still I falter at the front entrance to the bakery, and I look around suspiciously, sure all eyes are on me. 

I decide to go around to the back.  Like old times.

But before I round the corner, I look back at the display window.  There’s a new sign hanging up, advertising a room for rent.  I rush around the building and dart behind the old apple tree in Peeta’s yard.  So he really is taking in a boarder.  I remember him briefly mentioning it that day a couple weeks ago, but I didn’t know he was still planning on it.

I hear the back door open and I peer around the trunk to see Peeta coming out with a garbage bag and a handful of goods too stale to sell.  He lifts the lid to the trash bin and places the bag inside, and I quietly watch as he carefully arranges the boxes of old goods on the top, right in reach of the little Seam hands that I’m sure will be coming for them soon.

He closes the lid and turns to head back inside, and I jump out from behind the tree.  Before I can stop myself, I call out Peeta’s name.

"Katniss?" he asks, probably confused as to why I'm in the back.

"How much do you want for the room?" I ask, already mentally calculating what I can afford to offer him right now.

"What?"

"I don't know how much I could pay each month, but I could take care of the house and prepare meals and-"

"You need a place to stay?" he asks, concerned and stepping closer.

I nod, and he stands in front of me, his blue eyes boring into mine. "Then we'll work something out."

I look over his shoulder and up at the red brick building that will now be my home.

"Come on," he says, taking my hand and leading me inside.

People will talk, surely now more than ever. But at this moment I can't bring myself to care.          

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~The story is really going to start picking up now, so I hope you enjoy it. There won't be an update next week so I can focus on writing something for PiP (the everlark fic challenge on tumblr- check out the url promptsinpanem if you don't know about it, because it's awesome!) but a new chapter will be up on the 19th.~~
> 
> I lied. Unfortunately my schedule is getting too crazy so this fic will be going on hiatus as of this chapter. I'll write when I can, but it will probably be awhile before another update. It WILL be finished, though. I'm sorry.
> 
> Come find me on tumblr as cinnamonanddildo. I post previews and other stories there, and I'll be happy to answer any questions. Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 4

Peeta’s home is nearly bare, and he watches sheepishly as I look around the sparse main room. There’s nothing on the white walls except the Capitol-mandated television set, and he doesn’t appear to own a single piece of furniture aside from the folding table and chairs in the kitchen. It’s not at all what I expected; even my parents managed an old sofa and other pieces in the small home they put together.

“Which room is mine?” I ask, getting right to the point. It’s not like I need anything but a place to sleep.

I wait a beat before he shakes himself out of whatever else he was thinking about and finally acknowledges me. “You can take your pick, but my parents’ old room is the largest.”

He leads me down the hall, the hardwood floors squeaking slightly under our weight. The first door he opens is to a large, empty bedroom, and I take only a quick look before following him to the next one. This one is much smaller, and I’m sure it belonged to his oldest brother and not the witch and late Mr. Mellark.

“I’ll take this one,” I say, dropping my game bag onto the floor to stake my claim.

“Are you sure you don’t want the bigger one?” he asks, but I shake my head. I would never feel settled in a room that belonged to his parents, and I can’t even imagine what would happen if Maria Mellark found out I was sleeping there.

That thought gives me pause for the first time since I ran to him. “Peeta? What will your mother say? Or your brothers?”

He considers it for a moment and then shrugs. “My brothers have their own lives to be concerned with, so I’m sure they won’t say anything. My mother…” He shakes his head as he contemplates it, and I’m thankful that he’s not simply brushing it off. “It’s hard to imagine her being concerned about anything I do,” he admits. “I rarely see her.”

“Okay.” But I still feel uneasy now that the image of her hardened face is in my mind.

“What about your mother?” he asks me. “And Prim. And Gale Hawthorne.”

My eyes snap to his, and I’m not sure what kind of expression I expect to find him wearing, but he’s only showing genuine curiosity. “They have their own lives to worry about, too,” I answer simply, but I know that I’ll have a lot of explaining to do to all of them, and it’s nothing I’m anticipating.  
I brush past him as I leave the room, and he follows right behind me. “I can get some furniture,” he says from his place now at my side. “I was planning on it eventually, but I haven’t really had the time or need for it.”

He shouldn’t have to furnish the place on my account, and I don’t feel comfortable with the idea of him taking on such an expensive endeavor for me.

“You don’t have to do that,” I tell him. “You shouldn’t have to pay for all of that, and I can’t really afford to help and pay rent-”

“Maybe we could pool our resources,” he interrupts. “And that could be your payment for the room.”

“We’d buy it together?” I ask to clarify, and he nods. “I don’t have that much saved, Peeta. And I might not even be living here by the time I do.”

“You haven’t even moved in yet,” he says with a smile. “And you’re already thinking about leaving?” He presses one shoulder against the wall and leans as he considers his next words, and he seems more solemn when he asks, “Do you think you won’t be here long?”

Truthfully, I haven’t thought about it. I haven’t really thought out anything in the last hour. “No. I’m sure I’ll be here for awhile. As long as you’ll have me.”

There’s that smile again, and it seems to have this calming effect I can’t begin to explain.  
“So there’s no hurry. We’ll buy everything one piece at a time. But you’re going to need a bed soon.”

“I already have one,” I say, waving him off as I look around my new living quarters again.

“Oh. So you can move in whenever you’re ready,” he says. “Now, if you want.”

It might be best to leave as soon as I tell my mother about this, since I’m not sure what her reaction will be, so I nod in agreement. “Thank you.”

“It’ll feel more like a home once there’s furniture,” he promises kindly, and my face falls at that. Because this won’t be my home. Not really. And my parents’ house, that small rundown shack with more bad memories than good, will no longer be mine, either.

A place to stay, yes. It’s a bed to sleep in, somewhere to eat and bathe and keep warm in the winter. But it’s not my home. I’ll never have a home again.

~*~

“You don’t have to go,” my mother insists again as I pack the few clothes I own into an old box. I don’t have many other belongings to take with me; there’s my hairbrush and rubber bands to secure my braid, our family’s plant book, and a few other odds and ends that have accumulated over the years. Still, it will all fit inside of this box. The sum of my life, my existence, all folding neatly inside the confines of this cardboard.

“It’s for the best,” I tell her. “You’ll have more room and more time for your patients now.”

“This is your home, Katniss,” she reminds me, but when I don’t respond, she takes a deep breath and looks away. “You’re welcome back here any time.”

I close the box and place it on the dining table. Gale, who agreed to help me take my things into town, has been quiet, and I’m thankful for that. As we move to the bedroom to take the mattress, my mother stops me with a frail hand on my forearm. “You forgot something,” she says, handing me the wedding photo of her and my father.

I stare at the withered frame in disbelief. “You don’t want this?” There’s an unmistakable edge to my voice.

Her face hardens at my implication, and she holds the photo to her chest protectively. “Of course. But I thought you might like to take it with you.” The offer has been rescinded, however, as I’ve twisted her kind gesture into something malicious. When it comes to my father, it’s an unforgivable offense.

Night has fallen outside, and my mother doesn’t say anything else as Gale takes the box to accompany me back to the square. He’s agreed, mercifully, to wait until dark. As I grab my father’s hunting jacket, I tell my mother that I’ll still bring her the plants she needs, as well as meat. She thanks me quietly as the door closes behind us.

“If you’re that desperate to leave, you can stay with me and Vera,” Gale says before we’ve taken our first step.

“And did you discuss that with Vera?” I tease, taking the box from his arms. He pulls it back against him, insistent, and meets my eyes squarely as he tells me he has.

“Thank you for being a good friend,” I sigh. “But Peeta’s a good friend, too. A good friend with a spare room.”

“The offer stands.”

I allow him to carry the heavier items, and we don’t speak again until we’ve reached the town, where we’re shrouded in darkness and safe from prying eyes.

Peeta offers his help, but I tell him to continue his prep work for the next morning. He and Gale exchange a curt nod, and soon all of my things are inside this strange room and not the only home I’ve ever known. When Gale leaves for the last time, I hug him, inhaling his strong scent of woodsmoke and familiarity. He pats my back gruffly and wishes me a good night.

I stand in the room, with its bare walls and wood floors and unwelcoming feel, and for the first time I consider what I’ve done today and wonder if I’ve made a monumental mistake. As the breath catches in my throat, and I feel as if these very walls are closing in on me, Peeta appear, knocking on the open door and smiling at me when our eyes meet.

“Are you hungry?”

I shake my head, because for once, I’m actually not.

“Can I get you anything? A blanket, maybe?”

In June, in this already stifling apartment on top of a bakery? Again, I shake my head.

He sighs as he moves into the room and stands before me. “Katniss, look, I know this must be strange for you. I remember when Graham left, and I was all alone for the first time. It didn’t feel like the place I’ve known all of my life. And you were never even up here before today.

But I want you to know that this is yours now, as much as it’s mine. And maybe after you’ve been here for awhile, and there are things here that you’ve helped buy to make it feel more like a house...it will feel more like a home. For you, and for me.”

He leaves, closing the door softly behind him before I have a chance to respond.

I sit down on my mattress with a sigh as I begin to unpack my meager belongings. It’s late, and I’m tired, but I want to look through the plant book before I turn in. My fingers probe for the worn leather binding, but I feel the hard edge of a frame instead. She must have snuck it in when I wasn’t looking, and I pull out the photo and stare at it. My mother, so young and beautiful and happy. My father, handsome, strong and in love. There’s a thin layer of coal dust covering the glass, and I wipe it away with my sleeve. Then I move the box to use as a makeshift nightstand, and gingerly place the frame on top, angled towards me. As I curl up on my bed, I look back at it one more time, and then I close my eyes and slowly fall asleep.

~*~

It’s my third night here, and my third night waking with a start before the sun has risen.

The first two nights, I ignored the loud bangs and thumps from the first floor, but now I’m exhausted and agitated, and I don’t think he realizes how loud he actually is. So I stalk down the stairs in my bare feet, tugging at the hem of my father’s nightshirt.

“Peeta!” I yell, and he jumps before his eyes dart toward me.

Immediately I feel bad for taking it out on him. This is his business and home after all, and no matter how much he protests, I’m the interloper, and I really don’t have any right to chide him for how frustratingly loud he is.

He grimaces when he takes in my flustered and exhausted appearance. “Did I wake you?”

“It’s fine,” I say, my resolve gone. The ovens are blazing, he has about twenty different batches of dough on the largest table, and I know his work has only just begun. My sleep should be the last of his concerns.

“I’ll try to be quieter,” he promises, and now I feel even worse. I can only imagine how tired Peeta must be, and he still has another 14 hours of work ahead of him. There was a time when I was sure that miners bore the greatest brunt of our district’s workload, but now I realize that merchants don’t exactly have soft lives, even if their jobs are decidedly less dangerous. And Peeta works especially hard, because he has no one to help him.

Until now.

“What can I do?” I ask, looking around at the mess. Maybe I can’t bake, but I can clean, and I can measure.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he says, but I won’t hear it.

“I insist.”

He should know it’s no use fighting me, so he tells me only one more time that I can back to bed before accepting his defeat and showing me how to clean out the display cases.

Soon the sun is up, and I go up to my room to change before the first customers arrive. I know Peeta has talked about finding help for the front end now that Graham is working full-time elsewhere, but he’s been working himself to the bone trying to do it all himself. He needs a break, and I know I can help, if only for a day or two a week.

We work together throughout the day, and my muscles ache by the time he is flipping over the ‘open’ sign and locking the door. I clean up while he preps for the next morning, and he thanks me profusely as we head back upstairs for the evening.

Wordlessly, we find ourselves side-by-side in the kitchen, preparing supper together. He tells me funny stories about some of his customers as I sauté squirrel in the skillet and he chops the carrots.

Our food is long gone, but we still sit at the table and talk. It’s only when he yawns in the middle of our discussion about former classmates that I realize he should be in bed. The summer sun is just setting, but baker hours are harsh ones. He moves to clear the table, and I shoo him away.

“Thank you for today,” he says again as he pushes in his chair. “I’ll try to be more quiet in the morning.”

I nod, hating this coy smile I can’t stop, and then I tell him goodnight. He replies with, “Sweet dreams,” and something about how he says it stays with me long after he returns to his room.

Over the first week, we fall into a comfortable routine. Most days I hunt and visit Prim, and then I always help Peeta at close to ease the end of his day. Some mornings I’ll wake with the sun and assist him until the afternoon. We always cook dinner together and then talk about our days as we eat, and then we retire to our own rooms and it all starts over again.

Peeta insists that our first furniture purchase should be a bed frame and dresser for my room, even though I’ve slept on this plain mattress for as long as I can remember, and I barely have enough clothes to fill a box, let alone a bureau. He says that Graham will give us a good deal, though, so I reluctantly agree.

As I’m putting away the few shirts and pants I own, most of which are far too big as they belonged to my father, Peeta knocks on my open door and then enters with a large box. “I was cleaning out my closet and found these,” he says, holding it out to me. “Would you want them?”

I look through his offerings to find a bunch of clothes that he must have outgrown years ago. He says they were passed down to all the Mellark boys, but have been stored away since he last fit them. All the material is soft and worn, but well-kept, and I thank him quietly and accept. What is simply an old box of hand-me-downs to a merchant is a treasure chest to anyone from the Seam, and I wait until he’s gone to rummage through all of them before putting everything away in my new dresser.

The only thing I keep out is an old bathrobe that feels as soft as a flower petal. Peeta must have still been a teenager when he wore it, since it’s the largest item in the box, and I’m practically swimming in the light material when I slip it over my shoulders. It’s so comfortable, though, and it doesn’t smell like it was stored away for a decade. No, it still smells like Peeta, and it reminds me of that jacket I wrapped myself up in months ago.

I put it back on after I’ve gotten ready for bed, and then I sit on my old mattress, my feet barely touching the ground now that it’s elevated, and I look at the wedding photo and bid a quiet goodnight to my parents, the way they were.

It’s a little too warm to wear this robe to sleep, but it’s so plush that I plan to regardless, so I wrap the belt tightly around my waist before I head to the kitchen for a glass of water. Peeta’s emerging from his room just as I am, and his eyes widen slightly when he sees me in his old clothes. It was a kind gesture to give them to me, but I know I probably look ridiculous in this, and I fiddle with the sash self-consciously.

His strange expression morphs into a smile as he gestures to the robe. “You look much prettier in that than I ever did.”

“I’m sure you looked very pretty in it,” I manage to return, looking away as he laughs lightly. He says kind things to everyone, I remind myself, and that’s the only reason I don’t retreat back into my room. Instead, we both fall silent as we continue to stand in the hallway, neither of us sure what to say or do next. The fact that we share this space is still something I’m trying to wrap my head around, and I feel like it’s the same for Peeta.  
“Are you going to bed soon?” I ask, breaking the quiet.

“I guess,” he answers after a moment’s contemplation. I take the reply to mean that he might as well, as if there isn’t anything worth staying up for. When I lived with my mother, especially in the months after Prim left, I turned in early nearly every single night.

Peeta, though, can certainly use the rest, so I quietly excuse myself to the kitchen. Surprisingly, he follows behind me and then stands at my side by the sink as I fill the glass.

“Are you working on your book?” he asks, and I nod as I sip, then I place the empty glass back on the counter.

I had shown him the plant book last night, since I was working on it as he came into my room to remove the door for the furniture delivery. It’s not something I’ve shared with anyone else, but his simple curiosity is certainly harmless.

“I was thinking,” he says now as he fetches his own drink. “If you want, I could help out with that.”

I’m not able to hide my frown before he catches sight of it, and I see the hint of his own before he quickly recovers. “But I understand if you don’t want that. It’s your family’s book, after all.”

“How?” I find myself asking as he turns away.

He stops and looks back at me, and I avert my eyes to refill the glass again. “I can draw,” he says. “And paint. I know you write descriptions, but I thought you might want a picture to go along with that.”

“You can paint?”

“Yeah,” he answers simply. “But I understand that you want to keep it in your family. The offer stands if you ever want help with anything.”

He’s already done plenty for me, but I can’t say I haven’t always wanted more pictures in the book, too. The ones that were done many years ago, drawn by the hand of an unknown relative who was long gone before I was born, are worn well with age, the fading black ink bleeding onto the yellowed paper. I’ve tried to do them myself when adding a new entry, but I lack any artistic talent. Peeta, though...if he can make designs and images burst in color on top of a cake, I can only imagine what’s possible with paper, ink and maybe even some paint, if I can get my hands on it.

“Okay,” I tell him, just as he’s about to turn back in the direction of his room. “I always wished I could draw the pictures myself, but I’m not any good at that.”

He smiles. “Guess it wouldn’t be fair for you to have all the talents, huh?”

I take his glass from the countertop and start to wash it, and then I realize he seems to be waiting expectantly rather than going back to bed. “I’m not going to ask you to draw now. You have to open the bakery in the morning.”

“Yeah, but that’s work. It’d be nice to do something fun for a change.”

“Helping me with the plant book sounds like fun to you?”

Again he smiles, but wider this time. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather do more.”

There’s about another hour of daylight to burn through, but I’ll feel terrible if he doesn’t get to sleep before the sun sets. No sense in arguing with him about it if it will only waste more time, so I rinse out the glass and then lead him into the living room. After I go back to my room to retrieve the plant book, we sprawl out on the floor and I turn to the page I was working on earlier.

“My father called this Fireweed,” I tell him, showing him the description I already penned very carefully inside the margins.

I hand over the quill and ink, which cost me a bundle at the Hob, but it was as necessary as food or water, as far as I’m concerned. Sure, I had to have nourishment, the basics to sustain myself and my mother at the time, but working on this book in the evenings at home always felt like the one thing keeping me sane. Years ago, I would have thought it was too much of a luxury to devote so much time and trades to this endeavor, but now I know I need this as much as I need the air I breathe.

So it’s with slightly shaking fingers that I push the book toward Peeta. He’s careful, so careful, with the expensive ink, and I watch in amazement as the picture of the plant blossoms to life on the page under his hand. I summed up the appearance in a few sentences, but he took those words and breathed life into them, and I can’t believe how accurate his drawing is. The circular veins in the leaves, the soft droop of the four-petaled flower...it’s as if the image was already burnt into his brain. He takes his time, wanting to get it right, and the minutes fly by as I watch him at work. Outside, the sun sets just as he finishes the last stroke.

“I could mix up some dyes downstairs for the purple, but I’m worried it’d run with the ink,” he says with regret.

I can’t tear my eyes off the page. “It’s perfect just the way it is,” I tell him honestly. For the first time in a long time, I feel genuine excitement about something outside of the woods. How did I ever think that my words would be enough? Peeta’s drawings will make this book everything I always wanted it to be.

We leave the page open so it can fully dry overnight, and he walks me to my room, whispering goodnight before making his way to his own.

That night, I dream of all the plants and flowers in the forest. There are the thick, curved leaves of trout lily, the cotton puff blossoms on Juneberry trees, and the bright white leaves of the daisies that pepper the grass and line the trunks of the old oaks. I can taste the plump black raspberries, the tartness exploding across my tongue as the juice stains my fingertips a violent violet.

Now I can have all of these images in my book, instead of just existing beyond the fence and inside my head. And even as I sleep, I can feel myself smiling, because I know that my father would be excited about these drawings, too.

In the morning, I want to escape into the forest from dawn to dusk and live my dream from the night before, but I know how busy Peeta will be downstairs again. It doesn’t bother me at all, not even a little, to stay inside and assist him rather than go out to hunt and forge. It’s not a matter of debts that need to be paid, or keeping score of who owes what to whom. He’s helped me, and I’ll help him, and it doesn’t have to be about anything more than that.

The workday is long, but the time passes by quickly. I get fewer disapproving looks from customers than I anticipated, and the few who sneer in my direction do so quietly, which is good, because that means Peeta doesn’t have to know about it. I have a feeling it wouldn’t go over well at all if he did.

My only real complaint before closing is the heat. It’s sweltering outside, the summer sun shining hotly over the entire square, and I feel just like the dough being placed inside the ovens. I can feel my clothes sticking to my sweat slicked skin, and my heavy braid feels like a torch against my back.

“I don’t how you can handle this weather,” I say as we finish cleaning up.

“You never get used to it, but at least it’s warm in the winter.” He’s suddenly very close, his body radiating more warmth than the oven at this point. “It’s too hot for you to cook,” he says, taking the bowls from my hand. “I’ll make dinner for you tonight.”

“Peeta,” I sigh, shaking my head. “You’ve been on your feet all day.”

“So have you. And all as a favor to me, so let me do this.”

“We might be low on squirrel. I think I’ll have to go out tomorrow for more.”

“That’s okay,” he says with a bright smile. “I want to make something else, anyway.” He reaches behind his back to untie his apron, and then he fixes his sweat dampened hair with a brush of his hand. “Go upstairs and relax.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” he says, spinning away from me while successfully evading my question.

I watch suspiciously as he slips out the back door, and then he’s gone before I have a chance to argue any further. I’m not sure I would anyway; it’s hot, I’m tired, and the idea of relaxing is just too tempting today.

The bowls he took out of my hands earlier are the last things that need cleaned, so I finish with those before I escape up the stairs. In the bathroom, I adjust the water temperature to lukewarm. At my mother’s, we had to heat our water if we wanted hot baths, but here it flows scalding from the faucet, if that’s what you want. But that’s definitely not what I want in this weather, so I test the water, satisfied when it’s tepid.

This is a luxury, and I sigh in relief as I sink down into the water. Peeta must prefer showers, which I can hear running in the early morning before opening and in the evenings after close, but I’ll always choose a bath. I rest my head against the back of the tub, my eyes falling shut as my muscles relax. I’m not sure how much times passes like this, but soon I hear Peeta’s heavy footsteps as he ascends the stairs. It must have been awhile, because my fingers are wrinkled when I step out of the bath to dry myself. I wrap myself up in his old robe and comb out my hair. For a moment, I consider letting it hang loose, but then I quickly braid it.

“What are you making?” I ask when I make my way into the kitchen. Peeta’s standing at the countertop, peeling potatoes as a pot of water boils on the stove. I just got out of the bathtub and I already feel sweaty again.

He looks over and then down at the robe I’m wearing again, and I see his face flush, but I’m pretty sure it’s not from the heat. I cross my arms in front of my chest and curse myself for not getting dressed before coming out here, but something smelled so delicious, and I followed my nose like a wild dog.

“I’m sorry,” I say, backing out of the kitchen and escaping to my bedroom, ashamed of my rudeness. I’ve been here for less than two weeks and I’m already acting as if I own the place. I change quickly and then return to Peeta in case he needs any help.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” he says as soon as he sees me out of the corner of his eye. I’m about to respond when I see the thick cuts of beef searing in the skillet.

“You went to the butcher?” Now I really feel bad. I should at least be providing the meat.

He shrugs, staring down at the steaks in disappointment. “I wanted to get some duck to roast, but they didn’t have any.”

I frown in confusion, wondering why he would possibly want to roast a duck on this sweltering evening, when I remember telling him earlier about the days I would spend at the lake with my father when I was younger. I’d been thinking about the same thing again earlier while in the bathtub, missing the cool lake water on the hot summer days. Peeta listened intently as I told him about those summer memories, about how we’d dig for katniss roots together, and I would search for eggs and then swim for hours while he hunted for fowl and enjoyed the freedom the forest provided us.

I stayed in that water until my skin was shriveled and my father had to pull me out, and he’d lift me on his shoulders as we gathered our spoils and headed back. At home, my mother roasted the duck my father hunted and we’d eat it with the katniss tubers in a rich gravy she prepared. Those are still the best meals I’ve ever eaten.

He wanted to prepare roasted duck. There’s flour on the counter to thicken gravy, and I’m sure it was much easier to get his hands on those potatoes than the tubers I was named after.

“Oh, Peeta,” I say, taking it all in. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I wanted to,” he insists. He’s about to say something else but he pauses, and then I hear his soft exhale before he decides to continue. “I just want you to know how glad I am that you’re here. It means a lot to me, Katniss. Not just the help in the bakery, but your company. I really don’t know how I managed so long without you.”

I’m not sure how to respond, so I think it over carefully, and then I come up with the truth. “I’m glad I’m here, too.” We share a smile as I help him with the food, and when it’s ready, we sit and eat and talk.

When every bit of the delicious meal is wiped clean from our plates, we wash the dishes side-by-side, and then we get back to work on the plant book. Tonight, Peeta draws the mayapple, something both my mother and Prim need all the time for its medicinal uses. It’s still light outside when he finishes, so we move on to another. It’s a simple blue flower without a name or important use, but it’s one of my favorites because its blossom is a sign of spring.

“I have a birthday cake order due soon for the mayor’s wife,” Peeta tells me as he outlines one of the flower’s five petals. “Maybe I’ll make these to decorate it with.”

“I’m sure she’ll like that,” I say, though with the state of her health, I doubt she’ll notice much about the cake, if she notices it at all.

“Hey, when’s your birthday?” he asks suddenly, and I look up from the book to find his blue eyes fixed on me. He looks a bit embarrassed, and he turns his attention back to the drawing. “It’s just funny that I don’t know that yet.”

“May 8th.”

“Oh. I’m sorry I missed it,” he says regretfully.

There really wasn’t anything to miss. Last month, when I turned 24, Prim came by to visit, bringing everything to make a stew, which my mother prepared. I’ve never been one to make a fuss about getting older. As a child, it just meant another year closer to the reaping. As a teenager, it meant more slips in the glass bowl. Now, as an adult, it means absolutely nothing.

“When’s yours?” I ask.

“December.”

“But when in December?” I press, fighting a smile.

He’s not able to contain his when he looks back up. “The 16th."

“Sounds like a good day to me,” I say with a shrug as he gets back to the paper and ink.

“Did you always have a cake on your birthday? When you were younger?” I ask. On one hand, I can’t imagine his witch of a mother allowing that, but surely the baker’s sons had special treats on those days.

“Cake? No, we never got a whole cake. But my father would give us cookies. Fresh ones, right out of the ovens.”

Maybe he wants to return the question, but surely he already knows that answer. Not all of my birthdays were unforgettable, though. “When I was about to turn five,” I begin, thinking back to the time when Prim was just starting to toddle around, and my parents were the happiest they had ever been, “my father gave me a doll.”

I’m expecting him to laugh at the idea of me, at any age, with a doll baby, but instead he looks up happily and says, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I smile, remembering the day I unwrapped her. He couldn’t wait for my actual birthday, so he gave her to me nearly a week early. “She wasn’t porcelain or anything. Just a rag doll. But she had a green dress, and her yarn hair was in two braids. And she had pink cheeks.” I can still see her so clearly.

“Do you still have her?”

I shake my head, and he frowns. “She was one of the first things to go.” Traded for a little food that kept us going. My father would have understood.

We finish the rest of the page quietly, and then it’s dark outside and time for bed. As I crawl on top of the covers, I hope that I don’t dream about my father tonight. Thankfully, I don’t.

I have to hunt in the morning, so I slip on my hunting boots as the sun rises. As I make my way into the kitchen, I notice a plate of cookies on the folding table, and they’re still warm to the touch. I don’t need a note to tell me it’s my birthday present, six weeks too late but still too much.

Once I’m outside of the fence, I take my time. By late afternoon, I’ve bagged half a dozen squirrels and rabbits, and picked plenty of strawberries. I stop at the Hob to trade most of it and then I take the rest home to the bakery.

Peeta’s wrapping up the bread that didn’t sell today, and I move in to help him. “Thank you for the cookies.”

“Cookies?”

“The ones you left for me in the kitchen this morning?”

He pretends to have no idea what I’m talking about, and my eyes narrow as I continue. “The ones you left for my birthday?”

“Birthday?” he teases, grabbing a tray to take to the back. I follow him and see the grin he’s trying to hide, so I take the tray from him and slam it down on the table.

“Yes, and I’m thanking you for them,” I say, annoyed.

“You’ve got a funny way of doing that, you know.”

He tries to take the tray back but I reach for it first. “Thank you for the cookies, Peeta,” I tell him, as sweetly as I can manage.

Peeta laughs. “You’re welcome, Katniss. But you don’t have to thank me.”

“No?”

“No. It’s just how it is. You’re gonna get cookies for your birthday for the rest of your life now. Every May 8th, guaranteed.”

That’s a pretty big promise, and it takes me by surprise but I can’t say I mind it. “Thank you,” I repeat, much more sincerely this time.

He leans in, and he’s close. He’s so close. “Now what did I just say?”

I blink, and that simple act is enough to bring me back. “I brought wild ginger,” I tell him, changing the subject to my game bag, which I swing around in front of myself. “I figured you can see it for yourself rather than go off my descriptions.” Not that he’s have any difficulty doing it that way.

“Great!” he says, beaming. “I bet I can finish that before dinner.” He peeks into my bag. “What’s for dinner, anyway?”

I close the bag on his hand and pull it away. “Rabbit. So wash up.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

I make my way to my room, and once I’m inside, I slip off my boots and change into clean clothes. My braid is starting to make my head ache today, so I pull out the rubber band and let it hang loose. It’s hot against my neck, but it still feels better to have it down.

When I make my way back to the main room, Peeta is already on the floor, the plant book open in front of him. He’s studying the wild ginger leaf, twirling it between his fingers, but he looks up when I enter, and the leaf slips from his grasp.

“You can draw it there if you want,” I say, motioning to the blank page he has open.

He doesn’t say anything as I sit next to him, and I stare back at him expectantly, waiting for him to either talk or start on the book. “Peeta?”

“I, uh, don’t think I’ve ever seen you with your hair down before,” he says, and immediately my hand reaches up to smooth the strands around my face. I only combed through it with my fingers, so I can imagine how untamed it looks right now.

“Oh. Sometimes it gives me a headache if I keep it in a braid too long.”

“I like it,” he says quietly, studying it. Then he reaches out, and I can feel the back of his hand against the top of my head, and then his fingers weave through the locks and slip down, gently but firmly. I feel like I’m frozen to the floor, unable to do anything but gape at him as his hand finally leaves my hair.

“You had a blade of grass here,” he says quietly, and then he holds it up as evidence. He’s looking at me funny though, and when my eyes meet his, I recognize that look, and I recoil as if he’s a snake about to strike. He might as well be.

I try to reign in my anger, and I must be doing a good job of it because he returns to my family book as if nothing has happened.  
Has he been listening to the rumors around the district, too? Weighing them, considering it carefully and then coming to his conclusion. I can hear Gale as his thumb trails along my cheek. “Everyone thinks we’re together anyway, Catnip.”

So is that how Peeta sees it now, too? Again, I wonder about the other girl, the one he wanted. Does he still want her, or has he settled, just like he swore he never would? It makes me feel sick thinking about it either way.

I don’t move the entire time he draws an exact replica of the wild ginger leaf that’s in front of him. While he finishes the final touches, I break out of my stupor and stand. “I’m going to clean up my room, then I’ll get started on dinner.”

“Okay,” he agrees, not bothering to look up. “I’m gonna go see Graham and talk to him about our couch.”

“Alright.” It feels like I race into my room then, and when I shut the door behind me, I fall back against it. Things were going so well. I should have known better.

By dinner time, I’m still thinking about the way it felt to have his fingers running through the length of my hair. I chop wild onions as the rabbit simmers in a pan on the stovetop, and I try to concentrate on making the cuts straight and even. Normally the mouth-watering aroma of the meat cooking and the anticipation of a meal would have my full attention, but since Peeta’s returned, I’m annoyingly distracted by all the sounds he makes as he roams around.

He says something to me about how good everything smells, but I keep my head down and my eyes on the blade. Then I feel him next to me, and I’m sure he’s just reaching above my head for a bowl or something equally innocent, but the close proximity catches me off guard and the knife slips, slicing my finger and not the root. I cry out in surprise and pain, immediately bringing my fingertip to my mouth and tasting blood.

"Are you okay?" he asks with alarm as I inspect the damage. It’s not too bad, though. Just a small cut right on the pad of my index finger. Before I can assure him that I think I’ll live, he takes my hand in his own and raises it to see for himself.

When I was a little girl, in the years before my father’s death, my mother could heal any of my scrapes or scratches, and she didn’t need the herbs and medicines she used on everyone else. She’d drop a soft kiss on the wound, wipe the tears from my eyes, and sweetly whisper, “All better,” and somehow, magically, it would be.

Now, for a fleeting second, I think Peeta might just do the same thing.

But he doesn’t. He releases my hand and then opens the nearest drawer, digging through its contents. He finds a bandage a second later, and I allow him to take my hand in order to wrap up my finger.

“Dinner will be ready in a few minutes,” I tell him, pulling my hand away. He thanks me, and then we eat in silence.

~*~

“So how’s the merchant life?” Gale asks, and I glare back at him until he laughs uneasily. “Oh, c’mon Catnip, you have to admit this is pretty weird.”

“It’s fine,” I insist, but it looks like he doesn’t believe me. If he had been able to hunt with me last Sunday, this answer would have been an honest one. Maybe I would’ve had some genuine enthusiasm about it as well. Last night changed things, though. I didn’t eat breakfast with Peeta this morning, and I’m holding out hope that he’ll be visiting the community home by the time I make it back into town this afternoon.

“What do you even talk about?” Gale asks as he sets up his snare.

“We talk,” I say simply, because I don’t want to get into this right now, especially with Gale.

“What do you have in common?”

“Why are you asking so many questions?” I bark back, and he shakes his head as he gets back to his snare.

“Just curious,” he says innocently, and I think he might be telling the truth.

I refuse to discuss this anymore. I go off by myself to find the plants Prim and my mother will need for the next few days, and I try to concentrate on this task alone, but Gale’s last question keeps playing in my head.

What do Peeta and I have in common? Friendships depend wholly on some kind of compatibility. For me and Gale, it was the mutual need to survive and take care of our families that bonded us. My only other real friend was Madge, and while she lived a very different life than I did, we were both quiet, neither of us ever feeling the need to talk just to hear our voices.

What qualities do Peeta and I share? The answer comes to me immediately, and I don’t like it. Loneliness. And here I thought starvation was a lousy foundation for a friendship.

That’s it though, when it comes down to it. Peeta and I have nothing in common except that we have no one else. Now he’s stuck with me, and I think he’s realized it, too.

Convenient, Gale had told me once. Wouldn’t it be convenient if we ended up together? I stalked off in an angry huff then and I do it again now, so I’m nearly a hundred yards away when I hear him calling my name.

“Where did you disappear to?” he asks when I finally make it back to him.

I’m quiet as I move around him to retrieve my bow, and I can hear him sigh in frustration. It really is a shame that we’re spending what little time we have together like this, so I share the sigh, and then I hand him one of the containers of strawberries I picked as a peace offering.

“For Vera.”

He takes them wordlessly, and I know we’re okay. Then, a few minutes later, he says, “The offer still stands, you know.”

“You two just want a live-in babysitter,” I say, because I need to stay in the shallow end this time. I just don’t have the energy to tread water right now. Not again.

Gale laughs as he pops one of the strawberries in his mouth. “If we wanted a babysitter, Catnip, we’d pick someone who actually likes kids.”

My brow furrows when I realize what he just said. “I...I like kids.”

“Oh sure, you’re just crazy about them, huh?” He smiles at me like he’s playing, like he’s expecting me to laugh, but I look away because it hurts. Gale is my best friend, and I long thought he was the one person who knew me best.

Does he really think that I don’t already love Ethan? Doesn’t he know that I’m already dreading the days that are more than a decade away because I want nothing more than for him to be safe? I want nothing more than for all of them to be safe.

I want them to be safe, and happy, and to never know hunger or reapings. I want us to all live in a world where scraped knees are a parent’s biggest concern. I want good people like Prim and Bryce to have a home full of children who they can dote on, because I know they have so much love to give.

But that’s not our reality. In our world, children go to bed hungry every night, and their parents are helpless to do anything about it. Their blood is shed for others’ entertainment, and still their parents can do nothing. And the good people with the biggest hearts will only ever have them broken.

“I don’t feel very good. I think I’m gonna go,” I tell him, dazed. He watches me with concern, but I wave it off. “I’m getting too much sun.”

“Do you want me to head back with you?”

“No. Stay. Hunt. I’ll see you next week if you can make it.”

I take my bag and start off before he can say anything else, and then I try to silence all my screaming thoughts as I walk home.

Peeta’s still there when I arrive, but the boxes of cookies are on the counter, so I know he’s about to leave for the community home. He smiles up at me as he slips on his boots, and I hang up my bag before moving to stand in front of him.

“Peeta, I...I don’t stay here because I don’t want to see the children.” I don’t care if the rest of the district thinks I’m cold or heartless, but I need him to know I’m not. I’m really not.

He gives me a perplexed look before he shakes his head and resumes double-knotting his laces. “I understand why you don’t want to go, Katniss.”

“I, uh.” My throat tightens painfully, that annoying tell that I’m about to cry, so I take a deep breath and try again. “I’d like to go back again today. If that’s okay with you.”

He stands up and studies my face, and I’m sure he can see the tears clinging to my lashes. I will him to not say anything about it, to not ask me what’s wrong or what happened or why I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want him to tell me that I don’t have to go, or to say that we should talk. I really don’t want him to say anything.

He doesn’t. He hands me a couple of the cookie boxes and leads the way out, and he does it without speaking a word.

We don’t talk on the way to the home, and we don’t talk while we’re there. I watch in awe as the children share their cookies with more generosity than any adults, and then I take a seat on the old worn sofa, not sure what to do next.

A couple little girls, no older than 5 or 6, come to sit with me, and they ask about my braid. I smile as I unsecure it, then I slowly plait it together again to show them how to do it. A few of the older girls watch me suspiciously, their protective eyes on the little ones I speak with. I meet their eyes and nod, because I know what they’re thinking and I need them to know they don’t have to worry.

Peeta and I stay for a few hours, until we’re ushered out by one of the workers. We don’t exchange any words on the way back to the bakery, either. We eat dinner in silence, and then we work on the plant book together, but we don’t talk then, either.

It’s just started to rain when I softly announce that I’m going to bed, and it’s an all-out storm by the time I’ve changed into my nightclothes. I fall asleep to the sound of thunder, and I wake to the flash of lightning that illuminates my dark room.

The storm continues all throughout the night, and when I sleep, I dream. But they’re really nightmares. I see Effie Trinket’s grin as she reaches for that condemning slip of paper, and every face awaiting their fate is a familiar one. It’s the children from the Seam, and the children from the home. The merchant kids who accompany their parents into the bakery are there, too. I see Posy Hawthorne, her lip quivering in fear. There’s a little girl who looks just like Prim, but she has Bryce’s eyes, and she shakes as she waits for the name to be called. Baby Ethan is also there; I know he shouldn’t be but he still is, and he’s crying and crying but no one comes to comfort him.

Soon all the children are crying, and when I wake up, I realize I’m crying, too. I feel Peeta at my side, and I’m wrapped up in his arms. He’s telling me that it’s okay, that it was just a dream, and my throat is raw when I try to answer him back. Because it’s not a dream. Not really.

He brushes the hair out of my eyes, and I lie back against my pillow, relaxing with his touch. As he moves to leave, I reach for his hand and beg him to stay. The thunder roars outside and I don’t hear his reply, but he crawls in next to me.

The storm rages on, so I inch closer towards Peeta until my cheek is pressed against his chest. His heartbeat drowns out every other sound, and my eyes close as I fall into a sound sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to didntheramble and misshoneywell for prereading, and a special thanks to Sharon for proofreading as well. Any remaining mistakes are all my fault.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr as cinnamonanddildo if you want to stop by and chat.


	6. Chapter 5

I can’t think of new story to tell.

Peeta is waiting, expecting another tale from my childhood or adventures hunting, but I can’t come up with anything that I haven’t already revealed. As I try again, he shifts closer to me in the bed, which threatens to eliminate the minimum six inches of open space that is always between us as we sleep next to each other.

He’s on his side now, blinking back at me as if offering a cue. But I’m still empty-handed, realizing each time something comes to me that I’ve told it before. This even includes my memories of my father, moments I never expected to share out loud with anyone else ever again.

 “It’s your turn,” I tell him, giving up. This time I don’t tack on a request for a happy one-though I’m much more in the mood for it at the moment- because the last time I did, he seemed to be struggling too hard to remember one.

 “No, pretty sure it’s _your_ turn tonight.” Technically it is; we’ve been going back and forth like this every night since that first time he came to me when I had a nightmare. _"Tell me a story,”_ he had asked. I hadn’t understood at the time, but when I was left with my warmest memories fresh in my mind as my eyes drifted shut, I got it.

Over two months worth of stories, passed between us like the squirrel and bread we used to trade, and already I’ve depleted my supply. I can’t tell him about my recent trades at The Hob, and there’s nothing new from my days spent in the forest now, where I’m so focused on the hunt that I barely spare a passing glance to any of the scenery that he seems to find so intriguing.

I wonder, not for the first time, if he’s waiting for an invitation to join me outside of the fence. It’s hard to picture Peeta in the woods, as I’m sure his heavy footsteps would scare off all the game within a mile radius. So if I’m ever going to ask him to join me, it certainly won’t be anytime soon, and without that offer to distract him, it means I’m still on the hook for a story right now.

But I don’t have one, and I don’t have the imagination to make one up. The sun is setting, and Peeta should be asleep soon or he’ll be exhausted later. I have to head out before sunrise as well. At this rate, we’ll both be useless tomorrow morning.

“Did I ever tell you about the lynx?” I begin, hopeful, but then I remember immediately that he’s already heard this one, too. I can still see his crestfallen expression after I revealed that I had to kill it.

It was different from the one he wears now, which appears to be confusion followed by amusement. I scowl, annoyed with the both of us, and he smiles in response.

“I can’t think of anything new to tell you,” I admit, because we have to sleep soon. He just shakes his head, that smile still on his face.

“What?” I ask defensively.

“I just never thought I’d have heard all your stories.”

“It’s not like there were all that many to tell.”

“Quality over quantity,” he says with a shrug.

That’s doubtful, but I let the comment pass. He doesn’t.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, you know,” he tells me as he sits up. “Pretty much everything about you is fascinating.”

“Fascinating?” Again, doubtful.

“Never mind,” he says with a wave of his hand as he falls back into bed. “I take it all back. You’re boring.”

“Thank you,” I tell him, appeased.

“Of course. I don’t know what I was thinking, anyway.” I know he’s going to continue before he does, and I realize neither of us will get enough sleep tonight. “I mean, what’s so interesting about a young girl going outside the fence to keep her family alive?”

“Not much,” I reply.

“Exactly,” he deadpans. “There’s nothing very impressive about your shooting skills, either. You know you get them in the eye every time, right?” He sighs dramatically. “It’s repetitive. And unexciting.”

I glare at him, hoping he’ll see it despite the darkening room. “Maybe I’ll start aiming for the heart.”

He’s smiling again. “Good night, Katniss,” he says, and I roll away from him, choosing instead to stare out the window as the last rays of sunlight filter through the blinds. It’s his favorite color.

“Good night, Peeta.”

~*~

“It’s going to be at least another six weeks,” Blye tells me the next morning at the Hob.

I pull the squirrels and rabbits from my bag, as well as some of the plants she specifically requested. Today’s haul will barely put a dent in what I owe her, but at least I have plenty of time now to pay up. “As long as I get it by December, it’ll be fine,” I say.

“It’s sweet, you know,” she tells me with a toothless grin, and I just shake my head as I sort everything on her table.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I tell her.

“I’ll be here.”

I stop by to say hello to Greasy Sae, and I trade one of my remaining squirrels for a large bowl of whatever stew she has concocted today. Maybe it’s too hot for steaming soup, but I owe her. Lately all of my best kills have gone to Blye, and I don’t want Sae to think she’s been forgotten.

“How’s that baker treating you?” Sae asks conspiringly, and for a moment I yearn for my early days of trading at the Hob, back when everyone seemed leering and intimidating, not teasing as they are now.

“Not you too,” I say before blowing on my spoonful of stew.

“Oh, I’m just kidding with you,” she says with a laugh, turning away from me to stir the kettle. “But it better be good,”  she adds. “Especially if you’re bartering with Blye over something for him.”

The soup is still scalding hot, and I’m growing annoyed. “News certainly does travel fast.”

“Well, I think it’s sweet.”

I decide a burnt tongue is a small price to pay for a hasty retreat, so I eat the stew (greens and mouse meat, from the taste) as quickly as I can.

It’s not _sweet_ , I tell myself later, during the walk home. It’s practical. I think of Peeta, and everything he has- the threadbare white t-shirts he wears every day, the brown or gray slacks that are just a little too long, the boots that are just a little too big (even the laces, old and thin, tied twice every time). Nothing was ever his first, or only his. Even now, the furniture filling the rooms is still, technically, half mine.

He works from dawn to dusk, and then tries to hide his grimace as he flexes his sore hands. Far as I can tell, the only single thing that he does just for himself is to close the bakery a half hour early every third Tuesday so the barber can cut his hair.

So I’ve decided, awhile ago actually, that Peeta should have a proper birthday present this year, and the paint set that Blye is getting from outside the district will be something just for Peeta. And just maybe he’ll want to use some of it for the plant book as well, and that’s what makes it so practical.

Practical. Not sweet. 

The only thing unpractical about it is the exorbitant price, which is more than I imagined (and I had imagined a lot). Blye won’t have to pay until its delivery, so I’ve still got plenty of time, and I remind myself of this several times a day because the fact is I’m currently in debt and it’s not a pleasant feeling. If I fail to come up with the money, Blye will have angered her contact, and all Peeta will be getting for his birthday will be my pathetic attempt at cookies. That wouldn’t be good for anyone.

My next stop is Prim’s apothecary shop, but coupling my fatigue with the heat makes the trek back into town especially laborious. Peeta’s promised that I’ll be thankful for the ovens this winter, but they were a real killer throughout the summer, and the warm weather is lingering. We’re nearing October now and sometimes I’m not sure it will ever be cold again. While there was a time when I would be perfectly happy about that, these days I’m looking forward to a break from this weather- maybe even a break from hunting- and to everything that the following months will bring. Including Peeta’s birthday.

As I enter the shop, I wipe my damp brow and then toss my bag onto Prim’s desk. “Long day?” she asks, not bothering to look up from the paper she’s reading over.

“Yes,” I admit. “I just want to go home and take a cool bath.”

“It didn’t take long for you to adjust, huh?” she asks. She ignores my perturbed look and returns to whatever she was doing. “I’m just saying, you seem very comfortable with all the changes in the last few months. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. I think it’s-”

“I swear, Prim, if you say it’s sweet, you can start crawling under the fence for your own damn herbs.”

“I think it’s _nice_ ,” she continues. “And I’m glad.”

I’m about to ask what exactly she’s happy about when I catch a glimpse of the Captiol emblem on the top corner of the paper she’s holding in her hand. “What’s that?” I stammer. The sudden tension is so overwhelming that I stifle a breath. Everything about that symbol evokes fear.

“It’s nothing,” she says with a blank face. She folds it twice and then tucks it into her apron pocket.

“Prim,” I whisper. It could be anything, really. A tax bill, or an innocuous notice of some kind. But she’s trying to hide it from me, and so it must be something bad.

I can see the battle she’s having with herself before she sighs, and then she pulls the paper out and stares down at it again. “It’ll be one year next month,” she says. “One year since our toasting.”

“I know,” I tell her, only now realizing that in my haste to secure Peeta’s present, I haven’t given a single thought about getting something for Prim and Bryce for their first anniversary.

“It’s been a year,” she emphasizes, and I blink away my inconsequential thoughts to see that she looks upset now. “Nothing’s worked.”

“A year isn’t very long, really,” I placate, my eyes on the paper she’s clutching. “What is that?”

“There are things they have in the Capitol that can help us. Supplements and medications, much more effective than red clover…”

“The Capitol has access to everything,” I remind her coldly. “We don’t.”

Her eyes brighten considerably. “But I can get this. They’ll ship it, and it’s not even that expensive.”

I’m so disgusted by the thought that I can’t even look at her. “Wow, I wonder why they’re so eager for us to all have children.”

“Please don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” I say, tearing my eyes from the paper so I can retrieve her plants. As I separate the items for her, she sighs loudly.

“I know you don’t understand it, but we want a baby.  And yes, we both know what could happen, but we’ll deal with it when the time comes. There would be so many other things, so many good things, to look forward to, Katniss.”

I’m not too eager to have this discussion again with her, either, so I shake my head as I hand over the last of the herbs to her. “Maybe it’s just not meant to be.” I wanted that to be the last of it, a way to end the conversation I didn’t want to have in the first place, but when I look up at Prim, she’s got tears in her eyes.

Her voice quivers as she asks, “How can you say that to me?”

“I’m just saying, if you have to go through all of this-”

“I know what you’re saying,” she snaps back. “I’m asking how you can say it. Even you aren’t callous enough to not realize how cold it is.”

_Callous. Cold._

I’ve watched others watching me, felt the heat of their stares as I walk through town, or the Seam,or even the Hob, and I know that after I pass by, they talk about the quiet one who hunts outside of the fence, who doesn’t ever smile or stop to chat, who only cares about what she can do today to get to tomorrow. It’s how so many have seen me for so long that sometimes I feel like I need to go along with it, and sometimes I’m not always sure if it’s how I am or if it’s a role I play. Regardless, I know how most people see me. But I never thought Prim saw me like that, too.

“I-I didn’t say it to be cold.”

“I think you should go.”

I feel a scrambling need to make myself clear, but I’m at a complete loss for the words that will soothe instead of inflame. “I just meant,” I try again, more deliberately this time, “that maybe you’re not supposed to get pregnant.”

I know immediately, even  before the look of deep hurt settles on her face, that it was the wrong thing to say. But I decide to surrender to Prim’s anger. Let her be upset with her stupid, insensitive sister. At least it will take her mind off of babies.

“You don’t understand,” she says after a tense moment of silence. “And I knew you wouldn’t.”

The heat and fatigue have taken a greater toll on me than I realized, but it’s these little daggers from Prim that are really breaking me down. I should have just left when she said, or I should just leave now. But the quiet one who hunts outside of the fence is also a stubborn fool, and while I don’t particularly like myself all that much, I still want to stand up for myself, even if it’s to the one person I love most in the world.

“I know more than you realize about what it’s like to be a parent,” I tell her, struggling to not raise my voice.

“I never wanted you to sacrifice anything for me.”

She thinks I’m trying to throw it all back at her, and I have to suppress a frustrated scream. How did we get here? This is like an argument between strangers, not sisters. We seem to be two people speaking different languages.

“Stop, okay? I’m not saying that. I don’t want to fight with you, I just want you to understand why I feel this way.”

“I do understand. Now you need to understand why _I_ feel this way. Katniss, Bryce and I want to have a baby-”

“Then go to the community home for one, not the Capitol!” Maybe I’ve been too busy hunting lately to spend as much time at the home as I should, but Prim has heard about my visits there. She’s well aware that there are dozens of children who want a family just as badly as she does.

I’m about to tell her just that when Bryce enters through the main entrance. He smiles sweetly at Prim before greeting her with a kiss. “Hello, Katniss,” he says warmly, but is face falls when he realizes that his wife and I are at a standstill.

“How were your rounds?” Prim asks, cutting off my reply to him.

“Bryce, can you excuse us?” I ask, cutting _him_ off.

Prim glowers at me as Bryce heads into the back room, and I straighten to scowl right back at her, even if I have to look up now to do it.

“You’re just going to think I’m selfish,” she begins. “But I’ve been delivering babies for nearly as long as I can remember, and I want to know what the other side of it’s like. I want...I want to know what it feels like to hold my baby in my arms for the first time and-”

She stops short at my eye roll and tosses my game bag at me. “And you really need to leave now.”

There’s a spiteful part of me that wants to take the plants back, or maybe hold my hand out expectantly, like I’m waiting for the payment, but instead I grip my now empty bag against my chest and say nothing as I walk away.

~*~

I’m still sulking later that evening as Peeta and I sit on the floor and work on an entry for a flower we call a firewheel. He’s carefully sketching the tapered edge of a petal when he wishes aloud that he had a way to capture the colors.

I think about how excited he’ll be when he receives the paint set I’ve ordered, but my happiness is fleeting because my fight with Prim is still on my mind. “Are you okay?” he asks, gently nudging my side with his elbow. “You seem upset.”

It’s the second time he’s said that since I arrived home, but I don’t think I can shrug it off again. So I tell him about the argument I had with my sister, and how she asked me to leave. He winces a little when I relay my words to her, and repeating them again out loud makes me wince, too. “I  don’t think she’s ever going to forgive it.”

“She will,” Peeta tells me. “Families argue. But she thinks the world of you.”

After today, I’m not so sure that’s true. But I’m too tired to dredge this all up with him right now, so I go back to the writing. I’m thankful that Peeta doesn’t press the issue further, because I really don’t want to talk about it, and that’s something he seems to pick up on straight away. Equally impressive is the way that he knows when I actually do want to talk about something, but I’m not sure how to bring it up. He’s much better than I am with discussions and feelings, and discussions about feelings. Maybe I should send him to Prim to patch things up on my behalf.

I glance over to see that his full attention is back on the drawing, and I watch as the intricate details of the flower blossom to life on the page, all by his hand alone. The firewheel I brought from the forest today for reference now lays wilted next to the book, and his eyes dart back and forth from it to his sketch as he tries to replicate it in ink.

“I was thinking,” he says, and I startle at his words, blinking rapidly as I shift my focus back to the plant book. “We should get a dining table and chairs next.”

“Okay,” I absently agree.

“I can stop by and put the order in tomorrow.”

I glance back over at him, trying to cover any anxiousness I’m feeling. “How much do you think that will be?”

“I’m not sure,” he shrugs. “Probably about the same price as the couch and chair.”

I purse my lips, adding the numbers up in my head. There’s no sense in trying- it’s a sum I’ll never be able to afford with everything else going on. “You really think we need a table now?”

“Why not?” he asks with a shrug. “We can even invite Prim and Bryce over for dinner once we have it.”

Here I thought it was a clever cover to use the furniture expenses as my reason for prolonged hours hunting, but I’ve only backed myself into a corner. If I tell him that I can’t afford my half right now, he might become suspicious.

“Sounds good,” I reply, though I can’t imagine it comes off as genuine.

Later, as we settle into bed, I’m caught up in thoughts about my fight with Prim and my momentous debt. I’m so preoccupied that I forget it’s Peeta’s turn to tell a story. He tugs my sleeve to garner my attention, and I roll over on my side.

“Do you want to hear a happy one tonight?” he asks.

I sigh gratefully, hoping I can forget everything else for a little while. “Please.”

“Alright,” he says, settling back comfortably. “This is a good one. I’ve been saving this one.

“It was the first day of kindergarten, and I was really nervous. I kept fidgeting, or at least that’s what my mother said. She kept yelling at me over breakfast, saying, ‘Peeta! Stop fidgeting!’ and I’d try to sit still, but it felt impossible. She got so annoyed that my father agreed to take me to school while she watched the bakery.”

This helps explain why it’s a happy story, if the witch is already gone from it.

“When we got there, we had to line up for sign-ins. I was leaning against my father’s side, watching as the children ahead of me stepped up to the table with their parents. Then my father leaned down and pointed to a little girl who was already registered and standing near the classroom door. He said, ‘See that little girl? I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner.’”

“He really said that to you?” I ask, propping my elbow up so I can rest my chin on my hand.

“He really did,” Peeta says with a wide smile. “And I said, ‘Why did she want a coal miner when she could’ve had you?’ and he said, ‘Because when he sings...even the birds stop to listen.’ Then it was our turn at the table, and he pulled me along to meet the teacher, but all I wanted to do was watch that little girl. I wondered about her parents, and what they were like. I wondered if she was nervous before school started, too, and if she was, did she fidget like I did.

“Later that day, in music assembly, the teacher asked if anyone knew the valley song. The little girl’s hand shot straight up, and the teacher stood her up on a stool in the middle of the room so she could sing it for us. That’s when I knew exactly what my father meant, because I swear, every bird outside the windows fell silent as she sang.

“Do you remember that?” he asks me, and my brow furrows as I try to recall a little girl singing that song. I shake my head, and his smile widens. “You were wearing a red plaid dress,” he says. “And you had your hair in two braids instead of one.”

“Me?” I’m stunned that he would remember me from so long ago. I can barely recall what he wore yesterday, but he knows what I had on the first day of kindergarten.

“Yeah, you,” he laughs softly, and I go over everything again with a new perspective- the mother who ran off with a coal miner, the father who sang so beautifully even the birds stopped to listen...

“I was the little girl in the story?”

“At least you’re quick with an arrow,” he sighs.

I do remember singing that first day now. And there was a red plaid dress passed down to Prim...

“After school,” Peeta continues, “all the parents were outside the classroom to take us home. My mother was waiting to pick me up, and I looked over to see who was there for you. I think your father must have made an arrangement so he could be there that first day, because he was waiting with your mother and Prim, who was so small she was still in your mother’s arms. I watched as you ran to them, a big smile on your face. Your father hoisted you up on his shoulders, and you laughed as you wrapped your arms around his neck. While you were telling your parents about your day, they took each other’s hands and started towards home.

“And little Prim, who couldn’t have been more than a year old at the time, was watching you as you talked, too.”

It’s still too warm outside for a thick blanket, but Peeta pulls the sheet up around my shoulder. ”Even then, she looked at you with complete awe.”

Peeta’s as good with his stories as he is with his art, and now, thanks to him, I can remember that day, too. I feel like I’m melting into the mattress; he tucked me in with both the cover and a memory of my family that I never want to lose again.

“Everything’s going to be okay, Katniss,” he says.

Crazy as it might be, I believe him.

~*~

Weeks pass, but Prim is still angry with me. She scampers off to the back room anytime I show up with her plants, leaving a flustered Bryce to deal with me instead. He tries to make up reasons why she can’t see me herself, and I let him think I believe them.

At least now I’m thankful for the urgent need to hunt all hours of the day, because it’s proven to be quite the distraction from any unwanted thoughts and feelings. If I can keep up this pace before the weather inevitably turns, I’ll be able to afford both the paint for Peeta and my share for the dining set.

But next year, Peeta’s getting cookies.

Today I’m ignoring the small rabbits and squirrels in favor of a bigger prize, and I think it’s about to pay off. I follow the tracks into a small clearing, and I find a buck grazing on the tall grass surrounding one of the ancient trees. He’s big, much larger than the young doe I took down the week before. It was difficult to get that one to the fence without Gale, but it wasn’t impossible. I managed to drag it all the way to the Hob by myself, but that was my first mistake. By the time I’d gotten it to Blye, it was torn apart by the frenzied traders who were bidding desperately for a piece themselves, hacking at it mercilessly and in turn significantly decreasing its value.

I’d rather not go to the butcher, since she and Peeta talk regularly, but it’s the best option right now. So I take a deep breath while I aim, and the kill is clean and quick. But as I stand over the buck, I feel a familiar pang for its loss to the forest. When I finally do get a break, the woods will be as grateful for it as I am.

I can’t think about that now, though. It’s near dark, and I have to get this deer to the butcher, Rooba. I’ve been waiting patiently all day for a deer to pass in this part of the woods, in a section near the fence closest to her shop. It’s a tremendous effort to get it there, and I find myself stopping every few feet, panting in exertion as sweat drips down my face. As I get closer, I think about pleasant things to help push me along. Like the long bath I plan on taking tonight as soon as I get home. Or the leftover stew I’ll heat up for dinner if Peeta hasn’t prepared anything else.

Peeta. When I’m finally at the hole in the fence by Rooba’s shop, I imagine giving him the paint for his birthday. It’s what gives me the extra push to get the deer on the other side.

I have to knock several times before she answers, but she manages a gruff apology for the delay before naming her price. I agree to it, and as she comes around to take hold of the buck, I ask an additional request. “Rooba, please don’t mention this trade to Peeta.”

“Fine,” she huffs as she takes hold of a hind leg. “But you might want to tell him something. He was just here about half an hour ago, asking if I saw you today.”

“He was?” I frown, the money from Rooba still hot in my hand.

“I think he was worried,” she adds. One of her palms rests on her rotund belly as she tries to figure out how she wants to get the deer inside, and I offer my assistance before she waves me off. “No, go home to Peeta. He’ll be happy to see you.”

I do as she says, and the town is eerily quiet as I walk to the bakery. Once I’m inside the shop, I tuck my key and the money from Rooba into my bag and hang it on the hook near Peeta’s apron. Then I quietly climb the stairs, exhausted from such a long day, but glad it was at least a productive one.

Inside the apartment, Peeta’s on the couch, hunched over with his head in his hands, but he’s on his feet immediately after hearing the door close behind me.

“You’re still up?” I ask.  Rooba was right, he must have been worried.

“I wanted to make sure you got home okay,” he says, following me down the hall and to my room.

“Peeta, you don’t have to stay up because of me. Now you’ll be tired tomorrow.” I gather some clean pajamas and my towel, and push past him to head for the bathroom.

“I wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway.”

I stop at the door and offer up a pathetic smile. “Well, I’m home. Sleep now.”

He nods as I dart into the bathroom to start filling up the tub. As I slide into the water, I sigh with relief, and I take my time soaping up and washing my hair as the warm water relaxes me. When I finish, I dry off and pull on the oversized nightshirt that once belonged to my father, and then I head to the kitchen in search of food. Inside the icebox is a plate already prepared for me, and there’s sliced bread on the counter, covered with cloth, to go with it. I eat by the sink, then wash my dish and glass when I finish.

After another stop at the bathroom to brush my teeth, I finally make my way to Peeta’s room, but he’s not in there. The bed, still neatly made from this morning, is empty, so I search for him in the only other place I can imagine he’d be: my room.

I’m not sure why he’s curled up in my bed; it’s smaller than his, so we haven’t slept in it together since those first nights. Aside from a few naps I managed to sneak in between outings into the woods, I haven’t slept in it in months. But it’s where he is now, so I quietly cross the room and slip next to him under the covers, careful to not wake him.

“You know, it’s your turn to tell a story.”

I must jump a little at the sound of his voice, and he chuckles as he turns over to face me. “You didn’t think I’d forget?”

I groan, exhausted. How he’s still awake, I’ll never know.

“I’m kidding,” he tells me. “I know you’re tired.”

I’m thankful for the reprieve, but my eyes have just closed when he speaks again, more softly this time. “There was some sort of commotion in town this afternoon. I didn’t see it, but I guess the peacekeepers were involved.”

“Really?”

“I know it’s silly, you’re friends with some of the peacekeepers, but still, when you weren’t home by sunset…”

“It’s okay, Peeta,” I tell him, and he reaches out to rest his hand on my arm, right above my wrist. I don’t mind the weight of it there, so I allow it. Then I glance at the open window above us, shivering as a cool breeze flutters the curtains.

“The temperature’s finally dropping.”

His eyelids are heavy as he smiles back at me. “Yeah, isn’t it great?”

While I snuggle under the covers, using my free hand to pull them up higher around me, I can’t help but agree.

~*~

The room is so cold, and he’s so warm. It’s all I must be thinking when I wrap myself around him in the middle of the night. Bodies twist to fit together: his arm draped over my waist, my head tucked under his chin, and our legs entangled like vines. When I slowly open my eyes, the room is still dark, and I’ve completely abandoned my side of the bed in favor of Peeta’s. I blink, growing more lucid with each passing second, and realize that my bare leg is hitched high over his hip. I try not to disturb him as I disengage, but my knee brushes against his stomach and he moans softly, reaching out to pull me closer.

“Peeta,” I whisper loudly, trying somewhat frantically to wake him up before he does it again. “Peeta!”

He wakes slowly, disoriented at first but then immediately aware of himself, just as I had been. He rolls away, releasing me, and pulls the covers over his lap. “I’m sorry,” he says, breathing hard. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I tell him sincerely. It’s just basic biology and not worth dwelling over, since any warm form pressed next to him would trigger the same response. I’m not sure why he looks so mortified. I’m just as much at fault as he was. “Really, it’s fine.”

He doesn’t say another word as he leaves the room for his morning shower, and I fall back into bed, trying and failing to think of anything but what it felt like to be that close to someone. To Peeta. It’s bizarre.

I decide to make eggs for breakfast, and after Peeta’s dressed for the day, he joins me in the kitchen. As he continues to act bashful throughout the meal, I realize I should be relieved that this is his response.

“Maybe we should start sleeping in separate beds again,” he says.

Or not.

“You don’t have nightmares anymore,” he continues. “And it doesn’t really make sense for us-”

“You’re right,” I say, stabbing at my egg with the fork.

“I’ll be right down the hall if you need anything.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry,” he adds, and I shrug it off as I gather our plates.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” I tell him truthfully.

He leaves to begin work in the bakery, and I clean up the kitchen and make the bed. I guess now I’ll have to make two beds every morning. There’s reason enough for my annoyance.

After I change and braid my hair, I head out for the day, turning in the opposite direction of the apothecary and starting for the community home instead. I’ve tried to spend a little more time here since my fight with Prim, but it still doesn’t add up to much, and it’s something I feel guilty over.

I catch sight of Delly leaning against the wall around the back of the building. I follow her, and when she spots me, she wipes at her eyes and plasters on an unconvincing smile. “Hi, Katniss!”

“What’s wrong?”

Her smile only widens as she shakes her head, but a wayward tear slips down her face. As another makes its escape, she drops the act and gives in, her face crumpling as she sobs.

“What’s wrong?” I ask again, inching closer.

“I can’t do this,” she cries. “I thought I could handle it but I can’t.”

“Delly, you’re doing great here. The children love you.”

“I can’t help any of them,” she says with a headshake. “Not really.”

“You help them every single day,” I tell her, propping myself up against the wall, too. “Just by being there and letting them know you care about them.”

“Caring about them isn’t enough,” she replies.

“It counts for more than you know.” The home meets the children’s most basic needs with food and shelter, but I don’t think they ever experienced consistent affection from anyone before Delly began her work there. The others employed by the home are nowhere near as nice to the kids.

“I wish I could be more like you,” she admits quietly. “Strong and brave.”

I’m taken back by the compliment for a moment, but Delly said it with such sincerity that I know she believes it’s true. “You are,” I tell her. “And you’re also kind. I think that’s probably the most important thing in the world.”

It’s not an easy thing to admit, but Delly, with her tear-stained face, needs to hear it. So I make a confession- “I wish I could be more like you.”

My secret is met with a bone-breaking hug, and her frizzy hair tickles my face, so I brush it away and pat her once, twice on the back, a sign that the embrace should end now. She takes the hint and releases me. “Thank you, Katniss. Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

She leads me inside through the back, and I wave at some of the younger children who are playing with the meager toys in the center of the room while their older siblings get ready for school. We stop outside of the nursery, and Delly motions for me to be quiet as we enter.

All the cribs are empty except one in the back. When I peer inside, I expect to find a baby, but there’s a toddler inside, curled up on her side and sucking her thumb in her sleep. Her long, black hair is a matted nest, and there are small bruises and scratches covering her face and hand. The rest of her is hidden by the thin blanket covering her impossibly tiny body. “What’s her name?” I whisper.

“We don’t know. Darius found her wandering near the Hob yesterday.”

That might explain the commotion with the peacekeepers Peeta was referring to last night. But this little girl is Seam, and while I’d like to think they’ll be able to find her parents and everything will be okay, I know that’s not how these stories end.

“I’ll ask around,” I tell Delly, leading her out of the room so we can talk without waking the child. “I’m sure someone knows something.”

“She’s in pretty bad shape. The town doctor had to keep her last night,” Delly says as she looks through the small window on the door to the nursery. “I don’t know if the parents will want to be found.”

I check back through the window, too, before separating from Delly to visit with some of the other children. When it’s time for their naps, I say my goodbyes, promising I’ll see them again soon. On my way out, I pass by the nursery door again and peer inside, where it’s quiet and dark. She must still be asleep.

I should go out to hunt again today, but I just don’t feel up to it by the time I leave. I walk past the apothecary shop a few times, but I never gather the nerves to go inside. So much for being strong and brave.

And because I’m such a coward, I don’t even stop to help Peeta in the bakery when I finally make my way home.

Still, the day passes quickly. After he closes, we eat dinner together, as we usually do, and he tells me about his day, peppered with a few funny stories about customers. Then we work on the plant book, taking our time finishing up an entry from a few days ago. As the sun sets, he tells me goodnight, and he heads off to his room.

I don’t follow him.

It’s strange to be in the bed alone again. It’s also strange how quickly we can get used to the unusual, until it feels like all you’ve ever known. Every attempt to turn off my thoughts has failed, and I toss and turn uncomfortably. As the alarm clock strikes midnight, I give up. I won’t be able to sleep without him.

I call out for him, making sure my voice is high and shaking, and he appears at my door only a few moments later, studying me with concern. “Did you have a nightmare?”

“Yeah,” I lie easily, pulling back the covers on his side of the bed. “Stay with me?”

I should feel bad about it, I guess, but as he crawls in next to me, all I feel is relieved.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO sorry for how long it's taken me to update this. Thank you for your patience. I'm working on finishing up the next chapter of Blowout now, but I hope it won't be too long before chapter 6 of this fic is ready as well. Again, thank you so much for reading.
> 
> I'm on tumblr (sporadically) as annieoakley1, so please stop by and say hello if you feel like it.


	7. Chapter 6

 

 

 

 

That lingering summer heat is a distant memory by late November, when breath appears like smoke with every exhale and a thin sheet of snow coats the ground. The first night it fell, Peeta called me to the window, and we watched together as the fat flakes floated softly to the ground, where they shimmered like diamonds under the street lamps. In the Seam, it seems like the snow is already the color of soot as it rains down from the sky, but in town it stays blindingly white for days.  
  
Now it crunches beneath my boots while I walk through the square, and I pull my jacket tighter against me to ward off the cold. I have nothing for Prim today except a few roots, but I visit daily in hope that it will help us get back to the time when our relationship wasn’t as frigid as this winter air.  
  
She’s not in the mood to talk much today-which I pick up on immediately-but she seems to be following along as I tell her about my morning. I want to ask her if she has any news, but I know she doesn’t, and that’s why she’s upset.  
  
“We’ll be getting our table soon,” I say to extend this one-sided conversation. “You and Bryce should come over for dinner. We can celebrate New Year’s Day.”  
  
“There’s really not anything to celebrate,” she says distraughtly. Poor Prim hasn’t been herself lately, and I’d give just about anything to see her happy again.  
  
“Well, maybe in a month there will be,” I placate. “And if not, there’s a whole new year to look forward to. Anything can happen.”  
  
She cracks a tiny smile at this, probably sensing how desperate I am to give her some hope, which I never had to spare before. It’s a relief to see that hint of the old Prim again, and as she bottles up the last of her dried herbs, she asks more about the furniture. It’s the first time she’s asked me anything since our argument. In the weeks that followed, I was the one to break, finally showing up at her shop with her plants and a pathetic looking bouquet of wildflowers tied together with string. She accepted them with a quiet thank you, but I knew things still weren’t the same between us.  
  
“It’s expensive,” I admit after describing the dining set. “Which is part of the reason it’s taking so long to get it.”  
  
“Katniss, you should have said something! I would’ve helped.”  
  
“You know I wouldn’t take anything from you.”  
  
She does, but her shoulders still slump forward in defeat. She’s been so upset since trying to get pregnant, and the last thing I want is to make her feel bad about anything else. So, reluctantly, I tell her about Peeta’s present, which is the real reason I struggled to pay for the table. Ever since we were little, Prim loved to be told secrets, and there was no one more trustworthy of hearing them. I know she wouldn’t spoil the surprise, and the truth is that I’ve been dying to tell someone about it since it arrived on the train yesterday. The paint set is much nicer than I anticipated, even with its hefty price tag, and it took every bit of my self-control to not give it to Peeta as soon as I saw him.  
  
“He’ll love it,” she says confidently, and I’m pleased that my confession seems to have perked her up.  
  
I grumble that he better, but I know he’ll like it, too. It’s going to be a real struggle to wait out these next couple weeks until his birthday.  
  
Prim moves away from the table to stock her shelf, but she continues to talk as she works, which is a welcome change. I listen to her stories about the apothecary and her plans, but I’m more absorbed by her enthusiasm than her words, and I’m not paying attention as closely as I should until she mentions the community home.  
  
“The little girl they found in the Seam last month will be going back this weekend,” she informs me. “Did you hear about that?”  
  
I nod, thinking back to the tiny form in the crib. She was a mass of tangled black hair and bruises when I saw her, and she was removed from the home a short time later, her injuries requiring more care than anyone there could provide. Delly’s been keeping me updated, but I didn’t know yet that she’d be returning.  
  
“Have they found her parents?”  
  
“No. Mama said the Peacekeepers knocked on every door in the Seam.”  
  
“Maybe they’ll find one of her relatives,” I say, even though I know it’s not likely to happen if it hasn’t already. But it’s the only decent alternative that will get her out of the community home. I always wonder what exactly became of the parents of the children there, if they’re still alive. Were they too sick to care for them? Did they have no other choice but to surrender them to the district? The little girl’s situation is unique because no one knows where she came from, but I can’t imagine her parents are still around. If they are, where are they? I try to imagine her life before she was found roaming outside in the Seam. Did she have a father parish in the mines and a mother who couldn’t handle it, and locked herself away from the world like mine did? It’s probably silly, but I can’t help but compare her situation to my own. If I’d been any younger when my father was killed, Prim and I wouldn’t have stood a chance.  
  
“It’s so sad,” Prim continues. “She’s just a helpless little thing.”  
  
“You’ve seen her?” I ask.  
  
“A few days ago,” she confirms, and then details a list of injuries, including a sprained leg. “She screams her head off any time that mean old doctor gets near her, but that’s about as spritely as she gets. She’s still in pretty bad shape.”  
  
“Then why are they sending her back already?”  
  
She shrugs, but her tone is sympathetic when she tells me it’s probably for the best. “She’s miserable at the doctor’s, Katniss.”  
  
“I can’t imagine she’ll be much happier at the community home,” I say, zipping up my coat. If there was anything that could ruin my mood after a nice visit with Prim, it’s a conversation like this. Our relationship may improve, and there may even be birthdays and dinners to look forward to, but it doesn’t change the fact that we’re surrounded by misery, and any fleeting moments of happiness are just that- fleeting.  
  
I say goodbye to my sister, promising to visit again tomorrow, and then I trudge back through the snow to the bakery, where not even Peeta’s smiling face improves my disposition. I get to work cleaning up after him, eager to clear my mind. As he tends to the customers, I stay in the back and keep busy until it’s time to close. Then we eat dinner and talk about our day, and I tell him what about my visit with Prim between bites of roasted squirrel.  
  
“Hey,” he says, gently knocking his knee against mine underneath the old folding table. “What’s on your mind?”  
  
It’d be impossible to not get a good read on each other after spending so much time together, so I’m not surprised that he picks up on my melancholy. I even feel bad for feeling bad, because what right do I have to? I have enough food and a warm place to sleep, and while I my circle of family and friends is small, I know there are people who care about me. That’s more than many others have, especially the children at the home.  
  
“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m just tired.” That’s not going to be enough to appease Peeta, so I force a smile as well. “I’ll be okay.”  
  
And I will be. Later I’ll get to curl up next to him and fall into a sound rest without the gnaw of hunger to keep me up. More than that, I know I’m not alone as long as he’s beside me.  
  
It’s others I worry about now. The ones who never get their fill of food and shiver all night long under worn blankets. The ones who cry silently and think no one cares.  
  
Well, _I_ care, and I’m glad my debts are paid because I can’t afford any more time outside the fence.  
  
There’s another place where I’m needed.

  
  
**xxXXxx**

 

The nameless little girl is back at the community home when we arrive on Sunday. While the children huddle around Peeta for cookies, my eyes keep finding the door to the nursery where Delly said she was sleeping. I spend time with the other kids, taking a small comfort in their smiles as they nibble the stale treats, but when they’ve grown bored of my company and turn their interest to each other, I sneak away to check on her.  
  
Closing the door softly behind me, I look toward the only occupied crib in the room. A nursery shouldn’t be so depressing, but this space is just as drab as the rest of the home, with faded, peeling wall paper and an ever present chill in the air. I hear a muffled cough, and I can just make out movement from beneath her blanket. When I’m close enough to see her, she stares back at me with large grey eyes. I smile automatically, and to my surprise, so does she.  
  
“Hi, little one,” I say. “Did you have a nice nap?”  
  
Delly says she can’t-or won’t- talk, so I don’t expect a response and I don’t get one. I reach into the crib to pull the covers up higher around her shoulders, and then I take a moment to ruffle her hair, which is again in a mass of knots matted to her scalp. “I think you need a bath,” I tell her, and she shakes her head before pulling the blanket over it, which exposes her feet.  
  
I frown at the sight before me. She’s so thin that the mismatched baby socks she wears pool around her ankles, and I’m sure I could easily wrap my fingers around the thickest part of her leg. I tug the blanket down to cover her, and she grabs onto my hand as I’m pulling it back. “You’re stronger than you look,” I say, brushing my thumb along the paper-thin skin of her wrist.  
  
Her grip is tight as she sits upright, using me as a balance. “I’m sure you’re tired of being in there,” I say, deciding to pick her up. She feels feather-light in my arms as I lift her, and I settle her on my hip before reaching into my jacket pocket with my free hand. “I saved one of you,” I tell her, offering the retrieved cookie.

She takes it reluctantly, staring at it in confusion once it’s in her own little hand. I’m encouraging her to try it when the door opens, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I look up to see that it’s only Peeta. “I thought you were Cora,” I confess as he walks toward us. Cora is one of Delly’s coworkers, and she’s an impossibly unpleasant woman. I know she’d scold me for being in here.

Peeta approaches us with an easygoing smile. “You’re safe,” he announces. “She left for the day already.” He studies the little girl in my arms as she burrows her face against my neck. “And who is this?”  
  
There is nothing in his tone, his words or his manner that is remotely unsettling, but the cookie falls to the floor as she claws as close to me as possible. He detects her distress and backs off, and we share a confused look as she locks her arms around my neck and whimpers.  
  
“I’ll be in the main room,” he says, and I nod as I rub her back to calm her down.  
I tell her it’s okay and begin to hum an old song, and I bounce her in my arms until her nerves seem settled. Delly enters the room next, and it doesn’t elicit the same reaction that Peeta’s appearance did. She offers to take her from me, but I’m not ready to let go of her yet.

“I thought it might just be the doctor and the Peacekeepers, but it must be all men,” she sighs.

“What do you mean?”

Again, she holds out her open arms to the little girl, who now squirms to get to her. I hand her over reluctantly, a little disappointed that she’d prefer someone else. “She’s scared of them,” Delly explains. “She wanted nothing to do with the doctor. And did you see what she did to Darius when he was trying to bring her here? Scratched and bit him all up.”

“It’s hard to imagine someone so small putting up such a fight,” I reply.

Delly smiles proudly as she cuddles the child closer. “Yeah, she’s a tough one.”

She’d have to be, I think as I watch her with Delly. It’s the only way to survive after all she’s been through. Long gone is that little bit of hope I’d been holding onto, thinking that maybe she could be one of the few lucky ones to get out of here and back with her family, where at least she’d be loved and wanted. Where ever she came from…it can’t be any better than here. And that’s a terrible realization.

“Oh, did I tell you that we call her L now?” Delly says.

“L?”

“Mm hmm. The first letter of her case number. She deserves a real name, but it’ll do for now.”

She does deserve a name. She deserves a whole lot more, too. I resist the urge to take her back, since she seems content with Delly, so I take hold of her tiny hand instead. “Bye, L,” I say. “I promise I’ll come and visit you again real soon.”

 

**xxXXxx**

 

The morning of December 16th, the day I’ve been waiting for since I first got my hands on the paint set, I pretend to be fast asleep when Peeta first wakes. He’s careful not to disturb me as he gets out of bed, and after he’s left the room, I lie there and listen for the creaking pipes to signal the shower starting up, and then I dress and go to the kitchen.

“Good morning,” I tell him when he comes in about ten minutes later. He returns the greeting as I sip my tea, and then I ask him if he’d like some help this morning.

“Always,” he says with a smile. “If it’s okay with you.”  
“Wouldn’t have offered if it wasn’t,” I say coolly. I make no mention of his birthday. Not then and not while we work together before opening.

When we take a short break during the afternoon lull, I bring out some dried squirrel meat. I wish I had a fresh, whole squirrel to offer, but his birthday is inconveniently in the dead of winter, so this will have to do.

“Peeta,” I say. “Want to make a trade? Like old times?”

“What for?” he asks, confused.

“Squirrel for a cookie.”

“Katniss, if you want a cookie, just take one.”

“No,” I insist firmly. “I’d like to trade for it.”

He takes the squirrel meat from me. “Okay then.”

I walk over to the display case, where there are trays of cookies of all kinds. Some are simple, some are elaborately decorated, but I’m sure they’re all delicious. “What kind do you like best?”

He’s watching me curiously, like he knows I’m up to something but he can’t quite figure out what it is. “Depends on your mood, really. Take whichever ones you want.” A baker shouldn’t be so free with his product, but I’d bet Peeta would let me eat anything I wanted without complaint. Maybe he knows I’d never do that to him, though.

“But what’s your favorite?” I press.

“Well, I guess I’d go with one of those,” he says, pointing to the row of cookies with a light dusting of cinnamon and sugar, which I think he once told me are called snickerdoodles. “They’re especially good around this time of the year, when it’s cold and the ground is covered in snow.” He hands one to me. “Here, I’ll make you some tea to have with it.”

I offer to make the tea instead, jumping up to beat him to the kettle. He sits down and gets back to piping frosting on a cake order, but he’s watching me with that same curious look. I place the cookie on a plate and bring it over with the steaming mug of tea.

“For you,” I say, setting both in front of him. “Happy Birthday, Peeta.”

His smile is instantaneous, completely wiping out any trace of confusion over my behavior. “You remembered.”

“You thought I’d forget? Anyway, I’m sure your cookies are much better than anything I could make.”

“Thank you.” He breaks it in two and offers me half. “Try it?”

If it was the only thing I had for him, this cookie he baked, I’d resist, but I still have another surprise up my sleeve so I treat myself. It’s delicious, like everything else here. “Very good,” I tell him, brushing the crumbs off my lips.

He seems to think that’s it for his birthday celebration, and yet he’s perfectly happy with it. It doesn’t seem to take much to please Peeta, and this just makes me all the more eager to show him his real gift. If anyone deserves an elaborate present, it’s him.

But I wait until much later to give it to him, holding out until after dinner, when we’ve settled down with the plant book again. I didn’t know what to wrap it in, but it arrived in a black case that hides its contents. I pull it from its current hiding spot under the couch and slide it across the floor to where he’s stretched out, and his brows knit together as he looks down at it. “What’s that?”

“Just open it,” I tell him as I try to contain my own excitement.

He flashes another suspicious look, one I’ve grown accustomed to today, but then his eyes are on the case as he very slowly lifts the top to reveal several sized brushes and twelve colors of paint in shiny metallic tubes. He doesn’t say a word as he stares down at his gift, and I’m too impatient to wait any more. I lift the paints out to show him the wooden palette underneath. “You can put the paint on here, and I guess you can use this to mix them together,” I say, pulling the small knife from the holder. “There’s a paper in there that tells you about everything.”

He takes the paper, unfolds it, and then spends an infuriating amount of time reading it over. I wait for the smile I’ve imagined for months now, but he’s stone-faced as he carefully folds the slip back up and returns it to the case.

“You don’t like it.” I speak the words out loud as the realization hits me. I’ve spent so much time thinking about his reaction at this moment, but I never once imagined disappointment. The man who was thrilled earlier by a single cookie, who always seems so shocked yet so grateful every time I offer my meager assistance in the bakery. And here’s a present I worked so hard to get for him, something I was sure he would absolutely love, and he doesn’t even like it. I’d be furious if it didn’t hurt so much.

“Katniss, no,” he says softly, and I look up to see that he’s brushing away a tear that’s clinging to his long eyelashes. “I love it.”

I glance away, confused, not sure how to react to this reaction. I’m still trying to process it when he quietly asks how I got it, and I explain-rather flippantly- that I traded for it at the Hob. He doesn’t need to know how much time and money was put into procuring it, or that it came from the Capitol. I’ll just get embarrassed if he goes on and on about it, even if that’s so much better than him not liking it at all.

“I can’t even imagine how expensive it was,” he tells me, and I reply that it probably didn’t cost what he thinks it did. He’s not buying it, though, and why would he? The sleek case, the extravagant contents…it’s obvious to anyone that it’s not something I just happened to pick up one day at the Hob.

We’re caught in a moment of silence, and I shrink back a little under the intensity of his gaze, wondering for a moment if he’s going to do something crazy, like kiss me. “Katniss,” he says, his voice strong and steady now. “I want to tell you something.”

Something about that seems as foreboding as the look in his eye right now. This all seems a little too familiar, and I inch back ever so slightly. “Okay.”

He’s quiet again for a minute, and I’m not sure what exactly is going on in his head, which he shakes now as he pushes the paint set away. “I want to give you something,” he says, apparently correcting himself. He gets up before I have a chance to protest, and I watch him head toward his room. He returns a few seconds later, hiding something behind his back.  
“It’s not much,” he begins. “I mean, it’s nothing compared to what you gave me, and I’m sorry for that. I really am.”

“Peeta, you don’t have to give me anything. It’s _your_ birthday.”

“I know. But I’ve had this for a while now, and I was going to give it to you on your birthday, really, but May is so far away and…I just want you to have it now, alright?”  
“Alright,” I say, my interest piqued. He seems hesitant, still holding whatever it is behind him, and I turn my head to try to get a glimpse. “What is it?”

He brings it around and looks down at it for a second with what looks like regret before finally offering it to me. I take it from him, awed. It’s a doll. Green plaid dress. Yellow hair made of yarn. It’s _my_ doll.

“It’s not your doll,” he says, as if he’s reading my mind. “I tried to find her. I asked everyone who came into the bakery about it. I even went to the Hob one day.”

“You went to the Hob?” I ask with disbelief.

“Yeah. But it was useless. No one knew anything about a doll traded more than a decade ago. Then, one day, a customer gave me a name of a lady who used to make dolls for the general store. Aldie Hufferman. She lives across town with her son now.

“So I went to their home to see if she would make one for you, but she said her hands can’t take that kind of work anymore. I was about to give up, completely hopeless, when she offered me that one. One of the legs is on backwards, so Mr. Puty at the store didn’t want it.”

I examine the doll’s feet to see that yes, one of the legs is sewn on wrong, making the toes point behind her ragdoll body. But that wouldn’t have mattered to me when I was five, and it doesn’t matter to me now.

He must take my scrutiny as criticism though, because he apologizes. “She said it was probably just like yours, otherwise,” he rambles. “It was made the same year you turned five, when Mr. Puty remembered trading with your father for it.”

“He remembers that?”

“Sure does,” Peeta says with a laugh. “It got him whole wild turkey.”

“It did?” I ask breathlessly, warm all over. It’s a wonderful reminder of how much my father loved me.

He nods as another thought strikes me, so I ask what it cost _him_ now. “Probably nothing compared to what that paint set must’ve cost you.”

“Peeta-“

“I’m sorry, Katniss.” I don’t know why he’s apologizing again. “I know it’s nothing you can use, not like me with the paint. It’s silly, really. But I wish you never had to give her up, and since I couldn’t get her back for you, this is the best I could manage.”

I hold the doll against me, absently hugging her, feeling all of five years old again. Her yellow yarn hair tickles my nose when I lean down and squeeze her tighter, working away at the lump forming in my throat. He’s right- she’s a completely frivolous present. Not like the few gifts I’ve received from Prim, my mother or Gale through the years. Clothes, hair bands for my braid, extra squirrels caught in a snare…those were all things I needed, all things as practical as I am. But this doll is a luxury, as extravagant to me now as it was nearly twenty years ago.

I never told Peeta this, but trading away that doll was one of the hardest things I ever had to do. I still remember telling myself not to cry, that it was stupid to get so upset over something like that when we needed food and firewood. But I quietly sobbed all night, trying my best not to wake Prim as I rested my hand over the spot in bed where the doll used to lay next to me.

“Her name was Daisy,” I confess now. “I think I’m going to call this one Dandelion.”

It seems fitting, and we share a smile as he opens up his paint set again and I plait the doll’s hair.

  
**xxXXxx**

  
Happiness, genuine happiness, is a wholly unfamiliar concept, but it’s a feeling that radiates throughout me until the moment we step foot back inside the home that following Sunday. The children enjoy their cookies- even L, who gnaws eagerly on hers as she props herself up in the crib- but it doesn’t seem like enough, and after we leave, it seems downright wrong to be happy about my full stomach, my warm home, my doll.

Peeta’s quiet, too, as we walk back to the bakery, and I wonder if he’s feeling as guilty as I am. He must be, because when we’re in bed later that night, he says, “I just wish I could do something _more_.”

“I know.”

“You think anyone there has ever gotten a gift?” he asks, not looking for an answer.

“They get cookies from you,” I say, a sad attempt to comfort him. “Every week.”

“Stale cookies,” he grumbles.

I could tell him that it’s better than nothing, which I know it is, but that won’t offer him any solace now. It’s certainly not helping me at all.

“I wish there was a way to get them all something. A little gift for each one.”

“There’s forty kids there now,” I sigh. “How could we ever afford that?”

He’s silent for a long time, and then he says, “We could put off buying the table."

I roll onto my side to face him, torn between intrigue at the possibility and the gnawing sense that it would never work. "Graham’s expecting the second half of the money this week."

"He'll understand," he placates. "Besides, it's not like we're cancelling the order. We're just delaying it."

"I don't know..."

"I'll handle Graham. If it's a problem at all, we won't do it. In the meantime, maybe you can talk to Delly. See what she says about it, if she thinks it'll be alright. I'd hate to give the children presents only for the staff to take them away."

"Okay," I reply, settling back in bed, refusing to feel excitement over the idea. But it's hard to reign it in; being able to buy something for each child at the home would be incredible. While there might not be any gift to make up for their situation, a small something of their very own certainly won’t be meaningless to them. I try to not get my hopes up but already I’m failing miserably.

Peeta must also feel the need to be cautious because he grows very quiet, which is unlike him. I turn my head to say something, for some reason unnerved by the sudden silence, but it looks like I already have his full attention. His eyes seem flit over every curve of my face, and he licks his lips as if he’s about to speak, but he doesn’t utter a single word. Finally he reaches out and rests his hand over mine, lacing our fingers together. “Is this okay?” he asks softly.

I think I manage a quick nod. Neither of us pull away, and our eyes stay locked together along with our entwined hands.

I don’t even remember falling asleep, and when I briefly wake in the middle of the night, his hand is still on top of mine. It’s not an unhappy realization, the feel of his palm against me. I don’t startle, or move back, or roll away. My body is tired and my mind should be preoccupied with other concerns, like what I’ll say to Delly, or how we’ll pull this all off. But all I can focus on is the weight of his hand, its warmth, how impossibly good it feels to be touching like this. Only those kinds of thoughts, and no others, pass through my head until exhaustion reclaims me.

  
**xxXXxx**

  
Graham is surprisingly amenable to Peeta’s plan, and Delly adamant that there will be no issues with any of the staff. In fact, after I ask her, she squares her shoulders and stares me dead in the eye as she says, “If anyone tries anything, _I’ll_ take care of it.”

And so we spend the next week slowly and thoughtfully planning every purchase for each child at the home.

I pick out hairbrushes and ribbons for the band of little girls I’ve been showing how to braid, while Peeta chooses small tinker toys for the group of young boys he spends the most time with. We buy things they can share and play with together, like pick up sticks and plastic marbles and a jacks and ball set. The older children, ones not quite reaping age yet, are more suited for checkers and chess, which Peeta plans on teaching them how to play. When I admit that I don’t know anything about chess, he smiles wide and says he’ll teach me, too.

There’s nothing in Mr. Puty’s general store that can compare to the paint set I bought for Peeta, but there’s plenty of chalk, and Peeta buys several boxes as he tells me about the animals he used to draw with Delly on the sidewalk outside of the bakery. Knowing how much my plant book means to me, I pick up some small journals and pencils for a few of the teenagers. Maybe they’ll want to put their own thoughts down on paper.

L is always cold in her crib, so I buy her a thick baby blanket to keep her warm all winter. After I’ve decided on one in soft pink, something on another display catches my eye- little wooden ducks on wheels, with long strings connected so it can be pulled around. I take two, thinking they’re nice gifts for the younger children. And as I’m paying Mrs. Puty, I’m already planning for the day when I can come back to buy another one. A little duck toy for my little duck’s own duckling. I’m sure Prim will like it.

It wasn’t easy to do, but we have a gift for each child by Sunday, just in time for our regular weekly visit. We’re tired but happy as we make our way to the building, our arms weighed down with the bags of presents (though Peeta carries the heaviest). As we walk, it begins to snow again, and I laugh at Peeta as he tries to blink away the flakes that cling to his impossibly long, golden eyelashes.  
  
The children expect us, but they could never anticipate the surprises we have for them. It takes nearly two hours to give everyone their present, and even the most sullen kids smile as they see they were not forgotten. When they’re all preoccupied with their gifts and each other, I sneak away to the nursery to cover L with her blanket. I pass Peeta on my way, and he gives me a shy smile before returning his attention to a little girl proudly showing off her stuffed bear.  
  
I wish L was a little older and a little stronger so she could join the other children in the main room, but she’s still confined to the crib, where she blinks back sleepily at me as I drape the blanket over her shoulders. I take out my doll from my coat pocket next, and-with Peeta’s blessing- prop it next to her. “This is Dandelion,” I tell her. “She’ll keep you company, and the blankie will keep you warm.”  
  
She looks at the doll curiously, running her tiny hand over the yarn hair, but then her interest returns to me, and she stretches out her arms because she wants to be held. This has become our routine now, so I lift her up, cradle her against me, and walk the length of the room. “You’re just a little bit heavier than Dandelion,” I say. “We have to fatten you up.”  
  
I tell her about the other children and their toys, about how Peeta and I picked everything out. I say anything I can to quell the silence in the room, because all she ever hears is silence. While she eats her cookie, I reach for Dandelion, and I make the ragdoll dance on top of the crib rail until it coaxes a smile from L. She warms up to the doll after that, and we play together until Cora enters the room to sternly announce that visiting hours are over.  
  
I put her back down, already missing her, and her face crumples before she breaks into tears. “Shh, it’s okay,” I tell her, nervously glancing over at Cora. “I’ll come back.”  
  
That doesn’t seem to mean anything to her. She wants me to pick her back up, her arms out, reaching for me. Her mouth is wide open in a soundless scream, her cheeks bright red. I cup her chin in my hand and brush away one of the tears, but I can’t do anything else. “I promise I’ll come back.”  
  
“She’ll quiet down once you’re gone,” Cora says, completely unaffected by L’s crying. “Go.”  
  
I feel close to tears now myself. “I’m sorry,” I tell L, ignoring Cora for as long as I can. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”  
  
She’s crying in earnest now, and hearing it breaks my heart as Cora ushers me out of the nursery. Peeta’s waiting for me outside the room, and I jump as the door slams behind me, cutting off L’s wailing.  
  
“Are you okay?” he asks softly as we leave, and I shake my head. It feels wrong to accept his comfort when she has no one to comfort her, but when he wraps me in his arms, I can’t find the resolve to push away.

  
**xxXXxx**

  
  
As the days pass, my visits to the home become a daily ritual. L cries every time I leave, so I start singing to her to calm her down, then wait until she falls asleep to slip away. I’ll always have to leave, I’ve tried to explain to her. But I’ll always come back.  
  
I stop by Prim’s shop on my way home, hoping to solidify our New Year’s Day plans- table or no table- but she’s out on a call. I head back to the bakery, pleased that I’ll at least be in time to help Peeta close. When I step through the back door, my ears perk up at the sound of soft laughter coming from the front, and I realize Peeta’s not alone.  
  
There, standing on the other side of the display case, is the elusive Madge Undersee. She looks the same as I remember, dressed now a heavy wool coat and her hair down in soft waves. I realize that can’t recall the last time I saw her, which is something I feel guilty over. She smiles wide when she notices me at the door, and Peeta turns around to greet me, too. “Hey, look who stopped by!”  
  
“Hi Katniss,” she says, tucking a lock of blonde hair behind her ear.  
  
“Madge,” I return, not sure what else to say. There’s years separating us now, but it’s not as if we ever had a falling out. Life just seemed to happen and we somehow lost touch.  
  
“I was telling Peeta that I heard about what you two did for the home, and I wanted to come by and tell you how lovely I think that is.” She pushes away from the counter and says something to Peeta, too quiet for me to catch it, and then she looks over his shoulder at me and smiles again. “I wish I could stay longer but my mother needs me at home.”  
  
“I understand,” I say.  
  
“Maybe you can drop by sometime,” she tells me. “I don’t get very many visitors.”  
  
“Okay, sure.”  
  
She tells us to have a good night before she leaves, and then Peeta spins around to face me. “How was your visit with L?” he asks eagerly.  
  
“It was nice,” I say. “How was your visit with Madge?” I don’t like this feeling brewing inside of me, and I try to curb it and make my question sincere.  
  
“Uh, it was nice, too,” he answers with a hint of confusion. “I haven’t seen her in ages. It must be quite a handful taking care of her mother all the time.”  
  
“Yeah, it must.”  
  
“You were good friends in school, right?” he asks. “I remember that you used to sit with her at lunch.”  
  
There’s no mistaken that it’s disappointment settling over me now, but I manage a half-hearted nod.  
  
“Maybe you should make plans to catch up with her,” he continues. “She must get lonely in that big house.”  
  
“I’ll try,” I tell him. I look around and see that he’s already started the close, so I ask him if it’d be okay if I headed to the Seam for a bit.

“Of course,” he says, smiling as he removes another tray from the display case. He’s in a remarkably good mood, even for Peeta, and I think I must be a lousy person because that sours my own attitude considerably.

“I’ll see you later,” I call out, grabbing my bag off the coat hook and marching determinably to the door. I gain speed as I make my way through the square, focusing intently on my long strides to help ignore the cold, snow, and that nagging discomfort I hoped to leave at the bakery.

I hesitate only when I reach my destination, and I knock quickly before I can change my mind. Vera answers the door, probably as confused by my visit as I am, but she invites me right in. “Gale’s not home yet,” she says, motioning for me to have a seat at the kitchen table.

“Oh.” I should have known that.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I lie easily. “I just wanted to stop by and see how things have been.” It’s what I told myself when I left the bakery, anyway. That if I was going to catch up with any old friend, it would be Gale.

Suddenly I remember what’s in my bag, and it’s a perfect excuse for my sudden appearance. “Oh! And I have something for Ethan!” I search for the stuffed black bear I picked out for him, and she smiles as she takes it from me.

“Oh, thank you! He’ll love it. Let me go wake him up so he can see it.”

I try to tell her she doesn’t have to do that, but she’s out of her chair and in the other room in a heartbeat. She emerges a few minutes later with Ethan, and he’s changed so much in these past months that I don’t recognize him at all.

“He’s getting so big,” I say in awe.

He’s sleepy-eyed as he wearily studies me. I’m a stranger to him, I sadly realize, watching as he wraps Vera’s long black hair around his chubby fist.

“He’s a Hawthorne boy, alright,” she laughs. “Grows out of his clothes as soon as we get them on him.”

She shows him the teddy bear, telling him ‘Aunt Katniss’ got it for him, but he wants down on the floor to play. He crawls quickly across the room, then plops back on his bottom and sticks his hand in his mouth. I smile at him and he flashes a toothy grin.

Gale’s return from the mines saves me from awkward small talk with Vera, but I feel like just a ghost in the room as he greets her with a kiss. She’s obviously thrilled to see him, holding him tightly as his lips move from her mouth to her ear. “Hi,” I see him whisper against her skin, and I quickly look away from such a private moment. In many ways I feel like I’m flung into the past, the whole scene reminding me of a time long ago when my mother met my father at the door every evening.

Gale’s covered in coal dust, and he now has a thick, black beard that makes him look more like the father he is. His eyes still light up when he sees me though. “Catnip!”

As Vera moves to the stovetop to start on dinner, Gale whisks Ethan off the floor and tosses him up in the air. The baby giggles loudly as his father catches him again, and I wonder for just the briefest moment if I was a fool to give this all up.

“So what brings you here today?” Gale asks.

I look over at Vera and then down at my hands, and Gale must take the hint because he invites me to take a quick walk with him outside. I feel awful that I’m taking him away from his warm home and his family, but I need an old friend right about now.

I shove my hands into my coat pockets as he shuts the door behind him, and we walk down the road a bit before I gather the courage to ask my question, even though I’m pretty sure I’ve already got my answer.

“Gale, are you happy?”

He stops suddenly and gives me a careful look over. “What?”

I sigh in frustration, not sure how to word any of this. “Do you ever still think about me? Like how you used to?”

His eyes widen and I have to scramble for a way to clarify what I just said. “Not that I want you to! I don’t! That’s why I’m here.”

“Catnip-”

“Peeta,” I start, but I stop again. I take a deep breath and a second to collect myself, and thankfully he shuts up to allow it. “There used to be someone else. Someone he wanted to marry.”

We stop in front of a dilapidated shack with old rusty barrels lining the broken steps. Gale brushes away the black snow on top of them so we can sit down, and now I wait for him to say something. Anything. But he only gives me a look to continue on.

“I think it was Madge Undersee,” I say. “She was at the bakery today and he looked so happy.”

“And that bothers you?”

I tuck my chin against my chest as my reply. It does bother me. That’s the whole reason I’m here. “I just thought maybe things were different now. We spend so much time together, and sometimes the way he looks at me, it’s how you used to look at me. But…”

“But you _want_ him to look at you that way,” he provides.

“Don’t be mad,” I plead.

He laughs in response. “I’m not mad, Catnip. Hate to break it to you, but I’m not carrying a torch for you or anything.”

“So you’ve moved on?” I ask hopefully.

He smiles knowingly as he leans back, folding his arms across his chest and crossing his ankles. “Ah, I get it now. Yeah, Catnip, I’ve moved on. People change. Feelings change.”

“And you don’t wonder about it? How things might have turned out with me instead?”

“Well, sure I’ve wondered about it. That’s natural. But I don’t regret anything. I’m glad things turned out the way they did.” He scratches at his beard and looks over at me. “Some things just aren’t meant to be.”  
“But some things just make sense. Peeta and Madge...they make sense.” It pains me to say it outloud, but it’s true.

He earnestly asks what makes so much sense about them, and I start rambling about the town, and their upbringings, their demeanors. He raises his eyebrows when I tell him about Peeta’s crush on her, about how he watched her in school. “Maybe he’d be with her now if she didn’t have to take care of her mother,” I add.

“Alright Catnip, what I’m about to say might shock you a little, but listen up. That whole town and Seam thing? Maybe it don’t matter as much as I thought. It sure didn’t matter any to your parents.

“And maybe you’re over thinking all the other stuff, too. Do you know for sure that he was in love with Madge?”

“Not for _sure_ -”

“So ask him. Then you’ll have your answer and you can stop wondering. And even if it was Madge, what’s that matter now? Do you think he’s looking at you and seeing her?”

I don’t answer him, and he shakes his head. “If he is, then he’s a fool.”

It’s getting dark out, and I’m sure Gale’s dinner is waiting for him. I sigh again and look over at my best friend. He’ll always be that. My best friend. Even if we go weeks or months without seeing and talking. “What should I do, Gale?”

“Maybe you should kiss him,” he teases. “Then you’ll know one way or another.”

I scowl back at him and he laughs again. “That beard looks ridiculous.”

He rubs the coarse hair with the back of his hand and grins. “But Vera likes it.”

I hop off the top of the barrel, my signal that he’s free to return to her now. My thanks for his time is unspoken, one of the benefits of such an old friendship. I wait for more teasing, or maybe a crack about my crush on a townie. But he doesn’t say anything about it, probably sensing it’s not the right moment. That’s another benefit.

He offers to walk me back to the square, but I’ve stolen enough of his evening already. I walk the worn path lost in my thoughts, and then I’m at the bakery’s entrance with hardly any memory of the journey there.

Peeta’s finishing up our own dinner, and I thank him for my plate as I take a seat at the rickety old folding table. “How was your visit with your mother?” he asks.

“I didn’t see my mother,” I answer as I cut up my carrots. “I saw Gale.”

“Oh. That’s nice.”

He sits across from me and looks down at his own food. “What?” I ask him.

“Nothing,” he says innocently. “I really do think it’s nice. I’m glad you’re still friends after all these years.”

I shrug. “We had a rough patch there for awhile, but we’re good now.”

He wants to say me something else, I can tell. I take a bite of my food and wait, and sure enough he gathers the nerve to come out and ask it. “What happened?”

I’ve never told anyone about that kiss in the woods, a moment that caused more turmoil than any simple touch of the lips should inflict. But it seems silly now that I’m a few years older and wiser. So I tell Peeta the truth about that day, and specifically that moment. How Gale wanted more than I wanted or could give, and how it nearly ruined our whole relationship. When I mention the kiss specifically, I search for any hint of jealousy, but if he feels it, he doesn’t show it.

After we’ve cleaned up from the meal, we stretch out on the floor and he mixes his red and blue paints to make just the right shade of purple for the lilacs in the plant book. Another hour passes, and I can still hear Gale’s words in my head. Not _kiss him-_  I shut him up about that. But, _So ask him_.

I told him about me and Gale, so it only seems fair. “Peeta,” I say casually as he paints. “Was it Madge?”

He looks up and blinks back at me. “What?”

“The girl you wanted to marry. Was it Madge?” _And if not her, then who was it? Who?_

  
He’s quiet for awhile, then he offers a sad smile. “Yeah. It was Madge.”

Gale was right, now that I have my answer, I can stop wondering. But with his response comes only more questions and feelings, and I don’t even know where to begin with those.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to loving-mellark for the banner. You can find me on tumblr as Everlarkeologist. Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 7

On an icy evening in early February, I'm helping Peeta clean up the front-end after close when there's an insistent knock on the door. I brace myself for a blast of cold air as I open it, already telling the customer that they're too late to buy anything, but it's not a customer greeting me. Gale, still in his work clothes and coat, his face smeared with soot and ash, offers a tight smile as he says hello. I tell him to come in, curious as to what he could possibly be doing here, but he declines.  
  
"Want to take a walk with me?" he asks, looking past me to eye Peeta behind the counter.  
  
"It's freezing outside."  
  
His eyes narrow when they meet mine, and I sigh as I untie my apron. "Let me get my jacket," I say, and I avoid Peeta as I walk past him to grab it from the back.  
  
The weather is as biting as I expected as we move away from the bakery, and I hold my head down to keep the wind from burning my face. "What's the matter?" I ask him impatiently, my teeth chattering.  
  
"Follow me," he says, ignoring my question.  
  
I struggle to keep up with his stride as he passes Prim's apothecary and the general store. As we near Rooba's butcher shop, he heads to the back of her building, and then follows the fence until he finds the section with an opening at the bottom, the one I used to bring the deer to her door months ago.  
  
The nearest street lamp is far enough away so that we're mostly shrouded in darkness, but his eyes still dart around nervously before he slips under the fence with much less grace than he normally has. If I wasn't so cold and agitated about being pulled away from the warm bakery, I might enjoy watching him struggle. But now all I can manage is a scowl as I wait impatiently for my turn.  
  
"What?" I ask once we're both on the other side. Why in the world is he here so late, and on a work night? Why is he insisting we go to the woods now in the dead of winter?  
  
"Peacekeepers," he tells me once he's deemed us far enough away from the district. "Ones from the Capitol. Darius said that they’re questioning him about that little girl."  
  
L. He's talking about L. "Why does the Capitol care so much?" I ask, confused. It's not as if a child's welfare has ever meant anything to them before.  
  
"They have our Peacekeepers matching birth registrations with families to find the parents."  
  
"But why? What does any of it matter to them?"

"They don't care about her, Katniss," he explains patiently. "But they care a whole lot about the registration."  
  
It makes sense, I realize. All births need to be documented at the Justice Building. It's been decades since anyone tried to hide a child to save them from the reaping; the punishment for such an offense is swift and cruel. But if it happened now, it'd be a sign of lax enforcement by our Peacekeepers, especially Darius. Things around here would change quickly.  
  
Even after drifting apart, I can still read Gale well enough to know how heavy this weighs on him. Life in District 12 is far from perfect, but all of our burdens have lessened since Darius took over Cray's post. He's an authority figure, but he's also our friend. The mood, especially in the Seam, is lighter now.

The Capitol wouldn't hesitate to cut out Darius's tongue- or do worse- if they thought he was not fulfilling his duties here. And then a new Peacekeeper with a point to prove would roll in, and we would all feel the wrath.

"There's no match, is there?" I ask, but I already know the answer. Whoever L's parents are- or were- they didn't have her birth recorded with the officials.

"He went through each one from the last six years, and every child is accounted for one way or another."  
  
I study Gale in the pale moonlight. "So what are you thinking?"

"You have to talk to you mother, Catnip. Convince her to do something none of us wish she had to do."

He leans against a tree and folds his arms across his chest. He's waiting for me to ask what he wants, and I'm waiting for him to just come out and tell me. He gives in first. "She's going to take her births and deaths ledger to the Justice Building at the end of the month," he says. "And there's a name on it, that if she took off..."

I wait for him to continue, anticipating that I won’t like what he’s got to say. He's obviously not very happy about it, either.

“A little girl died last week. She was only about two years old, maybe three at the most. Your mother said she had a cough that they couldn’t do anything about.” He looks away from me, instead staring up at the cloudy sky. “It could work, Catnip.”

“What about her family?”

“It was just her parents. Her daddy was one of the miners that died in the explosion last year, and her mother hadn’t been right since, but she’s completely gone off now. Won’t talk, won’t move.”

“And what if she does?” I ask with exasperation. “No mother would ever agree to something like this. Pretending her baby never existed-”

“I know it’s terrible, Katniss. I know that. Every single one of us knows that.”

This no longer feels like a plan between the two of us, with my mother reluctantly involved, and I realize it couldn’t be. Not if it were to work. The stakes are too high, and there are too many other factors. Neighbors, coworkers, maybe some distant relatives would have to know the truth. “So what, this is a big lie half the Seam would be in on? And I’m just hearing about it now?” I shrug off the implication that I’m somehow no longer Seam like the rest of them. That’s not what’s important right now.

“You have to understand how serious this is.”

“I understand,” I say. “I fully understand it. But are you thinking everything through? What if the process of elimination wasn’t enough evidence for the Capitol? What if they wanted to test blood?”

They wouldn’t have any of the other little girl’s blood on file; they don’t bother with that until children begin school, since quite a few never reach that milestone. But L is at the home, and I’m sure it’d be easy enough for them to check if she was related to the grieving widow being passed off as her mother.

Gale grabs my arm to pull me along with him, as if a few extra feet between us and the fence will offer extra protection. “There’s talk about uprising in some of the other districts,” he whispers harshly. “Districts 7 and 9, last I heard. Darius says that the attention is on that. They’re not going to make something out of this if they think the birth registries are up-to-date.”

“There are so many things that could go wrong, Gale. What if her real parents come forward?”

“If there’s anyone alive that knows who she really is, then they don’t  _want_  to be found,” he insists.

I shake out of his grip and turn away, heading back toward the fence. There’s too much to think about.

“Catnip,” he says, jogging through the snow to catch up with me. “Listen, I know it’s a lot to ask of you. It’s a lot to ask of your mother. But it’s our only chance to keep Darius and the district safe. He has two weeks to finish his report for the Captiol.”

He knows I’ll go to mother before I do, but I can’t promise him that I’ll convince her. I’m not even convinced myself yet. “I’ll try,” I say.

Before we reach the fence to return to home, he stops me one more time. “Darius didn’t want you to know anything about this,” he confesses. “He wanted to keep you out of it. To protect you.”

I nod before turning away. Gale’s last statement was both a plea to keep Darius ignorant of my role, and a reminder of what a good friend and person he is to us.

Back at the bakery, Peeta’s waiting for me when I return. He doesn’t ask what Gale wanted, but I know he’s curious. I shrug and make some flippant remark about hopes of an early spring and planning our next outing. I’m sure he doesn’t believe me, but that’s not surprising, since I’m not a very good liar. That’s probably reason enough to keep me out of this scheme.

The next morning, I leave the opening to Peeta and head to the Seam to see my mother. I already know it won’t be easy to sway her, and the task will be that more difficult because I’m not sure it’s the best idea, either. I may want to protect Darius and the district, but this proposal isn’t fair to anyone involved.  
  
“It’s not right,” she says as she takes a seat across from me at the dining table.  
  
I take a sip of the peppermint tea she made for us as I plan what to say next. She’s right, though- it’s absolutely not right. So I tell her as much. “I know.”  
  
This seems to surprise her, and she takes a moment to compose herself. “Doreen’s lost her husband, her daughter,  _and_  her mind,” she finally says. “I was in a dark place once, too, but at least I still had you girls. She has absolutely no one left.”  
  
How do I reply to that? I can’t think of anything to say, so I don’t say anything. For once, I decide to enjoy a visit with my mother. I turn the subject to Wilson, managing to convince her that I’ve come to terms with her moving on. She seems relieved by my change of heart, and as she talks, I pretend to listen while I go over what I’ll say to Gale about all of this.

  
  
**xxXXxx**

  
  
Several days later- and a week before Darius’s report is due to the Capitol officials- my mother comes to the bakery to see me.  
  
“Doreen died last night,” she says solemnly. “She took her own life.”  
  
She doesn’t seem as shaken as I would be after making such a discovery; maybe my mother is even more practical than I am. She doesn’t say it- it’s will never be spoken aloud within the fence- but I know she’ll remove the little girl from her deceased list. The truth will be buried with the Morehouse family. At least they’re at peace now, we reason. And there’s no sense in the rest of us having to suffer more than we are.  
  
The three are reunited when the last thin pine box is lowered into the ground in the Seam cemetery. And then begins the intricate web of lies to absolve Darius and to give L an identity. She’s now Baby Girl Morehouse, the name recorded on a list almost three years ago on June 17th.

A name and a birthdate that aren’t her own, and an official status as an orphan is all L can claim. When I visit her again, holding her in my arms as she holds Daisy in hers, I hug her a little tighter.  _I’m sorry_ , I think.

But Delly is thrilled about L’s lineage, and lucky enough to not be burdened by the truth. “This is good news, Katniss,” she says brightly. At my look of confusion, she claps her hands together and smiles. “Now L can be adopted!”

 

**xxXXxx**

 

“I think it should be a little darker, right?” Peeta asks, and I blink back at him, dazed. It’s very easy to get lost in watching him paint, and it’s an excellent escape from all the worries I’ve got lately.

“What?”

“The color for the petals,” he says, looking down at the plant book. “They’re supposed to be light red, according to your description. But I think this shade is too pink.”

I glance down at the flower he’s bringing to life on the page. It looks just like the ones that pepper the hillside outside the fence in the summer, and I can’t see any flaws with the coloring. “I think that’s perfect.”

He seems pleased with my response, and after finishing the page,he gathers his brushes to take them to the sink. I follow him into the kitchen and watch as he cleans up. Peeta’s extremely cautious with his paint set, taking great care to not waste a drop. Despite his best efforts, there’s still a streak of paint near his right elbow, just missing his rolled up sleeve, and another small smear on his cheekbone. He’s oblivious to it, and I resist the urge to brush my thumb against his skin where the soft pink meets his natural blush.

I suddenly want to confide in him, to reveal everything I’ve been keeping secret these past three weeks. It’s been weighing on me constantly, and I want to share it with him. I want him to tell me it’ll be okay, because he’s the only one I’ll believe.

I go back into the living room and grab a pencil and one of the loose pieces of blank paper from the back of the book. Returning to the kitchen, I take a seat at our folding table and ask Peeta to join me.

_I want to tell you something_ , I write on the paper before sliding it over to him.

There’s a hint of a smile on his face as he scribbles his response and passes it over to me.  _I hope you haven’t lost your voice._

I roll my eyes as I read it and shake my head.  _This is safer_ , I write.

_You think someone is listening?_

He obviously doesn’t, as the quirk of his brow tells me. But I can’t risk it. I underline my last response, pressing down on the pencil so hard that I almost break the point. Peeta takes the paper back and stares down at it for a moment before pushing his chair out and standing. “It’s late,” he says. “Let’s go to bed.”

I’m not sure what to make of this, but I stand to follow him as he moves to the stove. I watch as he places the paper over the burner, catching the edge on fire and then dropping it into the basin. He rinses the ashes down the drain, and then I trail behind him as we go to my room.

As he pulls back the covers, I slip off my robe- the old one that once belonged to him- and then unplait my hair. He faces me as I settle beside him, and once our heads find our pillows, he asks me to talk. “We’re alone here,” he whispers. “You’ve told me every story you have about hunting, Katniss. I really don’t think anyone else is listening.”

He’s probably right, I think. So, very softly and under the cover of darkness, I tell him about L. I leave out the fine details, like names, but I tell him everything else. He’s quiet after. He might even be upset. But then he tucks a piece of my hair behind my ear and lets his fingers glide down the side of my face. “It’ll be okay,” he says, and my eyes fall shut with relief.

He says it again as I drift off to sleep, the words as warm and comforting as the blankets over us.

_It’ll be okay._

 

**xxXXxx**

 

Months after returning to the home, L still spends almost all of her time in the nursery, lying in the crib, a shut door separating her from all the other children. I know that Delly pays extra attention to her whenever she’s not tending to the others, but she’s the only one to do that. The rest of the workers barely spare L an extra glance. She’s thirsty for acknowledgment, hungry for any sign that her presence is known. When I visit, which is almost daily now, she pulls herself up by the railing and smiles at me. It’s a smile I can’t resist, and I lift her up into my arms and hold her against me for as long as she’ll allow it. When she wants down to stretch her legs, I walk alongside her, nervous that she’ll take a tumble on the concrete floor.

She makes a game of it, toddling faster to get away from me, turning her head to flash that same sweet smile as she races toward an imaginary finish line. I stay right behind her, my arms out to catch her in case she falls. She takes that as a challenge, and she shrieks happily as she moves faster around the room to evade me.

I end the fun when I sweep her up in my arms to settle her down. Sometimes she fights it because she wants to play more, but mostly she snuggles against me, content to be held. I’ll sing her a song or tell her a story as she clutches Daisy, and I try to get her to fall asleep so she won’t see me leaving. On the days when she stays awake, she cries as I edge out of the room. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” I always tell her, but it does little to console her. I try to coax another smile from her on my way out, but her face is always bright pink and tear-stained.

Her cries are muffled in the other room, where more children seek my attention. I feel so guilty as I’m ushered outside by another worker, scolded for staying past the visiting hour. The children are on a schedule, they always remind me. They can’t have someone getting them all riled up before quiet time.

The snow melts and the first day of spring approaches, but the sky stays cloudy and the ground stays cold. This winter feels like every winter, and I always wonder if it will ever be warm again.

 

**xxXXxx**

 

Prim seems to be in a good mood when she lets me into her shop. Her bright eyes and smile, highlighted by the rosy glow of her cheeks, must set us apart even further. I don’t think anyone who saw us together, particularly now, would ever guess we’re sisters.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, the smile falling when she sees how somber I am.

“I have to ask you a favor,” I say.

Her eyes widen, probably never expecting I’d say something like that. “Of course,” she says quickly. “Whatever I can do.”

“Adopt L.”

“What?”

I move around the counter to stand in front of her, staring up into her eyes so she knows how serious I am with this request. I’ve never asked anything of my little sister, and I hoped I would never have to, but L is more important than my pride.

“She can’t stay there anymore. And I know it’s not what you wanted, and I’m sorry, but she’s wonderful, Prim. You’ll love her just as much as you’d love your own baby.” I brush away my tears, still so shaken from my visit that I can no longer hold them back. “Maybe it was meant to happen like this.”

All traces of happiness are gone as she drops her eyes. “I’m pregnant.”

I don’t think I heard her right. “What?”

She repeats it, shaking her head sadly. I’m sure she didn’t imagine it playing out this way, that she’d be anything less than ecstatic to tell me this news. But I can see it in her eyes now- she regrets letting me down. And because I’m an awful, selfish person, I  _feel_  let down.

I don’t know what to say now as she rambles on that it’s very early, and they just found out, and she was going to invite me to dinner tonight to tell me, and she’s sorry. She’s so, so sorry that she can’t do the only thing I’ve ever asked of her.

“I have to go,” I tell her, backing away. I’m too preoccupied with L now, and I’m not thinking rationally. I don’t want to say something I’ll regret.

I rush out of her shop and straight towards home. Peeta has a line of customers he’s serving, and I don’t acknowledge his greeting as I speed past them all to go upstairs.

I realize, a few minutes into my tantrum, that Peeta will follow me upstairs the first opportunity he has. It's not fair to him to have to close up, even temporarily, just to console me. I stop sulking and return to the bakery to help him. He thanks me quietly as I take over at the register, and he disappears into the back to tend to the ovens. I'm grateful for the distraction working provides, and after checking out the last customer, I go back to the kitchen to talk to him.  
  
"What's wrong?" he asks as soon as he sees me, and I wonder if he's tired yet of dealing with my mood swings. Peeta's someone who manages smiles and kindness no matter what he's feeling inside, and I don't think I could ever pull that off.  
  
"Prim's pregant."  
  
"And that's bad news?" he asks, obviously confused.  
  
"It's not," I sigh. "I just...I've been holding out hope that they would adopt L." I sound like a petulant child. But he humors me, taking the seat next to mine and smiling sympathetically.  
  
"It's only getting harder on her, being there," I admit quietly. Peeta's had to keep his distance from L since her scare when she first met him. We've made one more attempt to introduce him as someone she didn't have to fear, but it didn't go over very well. She's like that with any man she comes into contact with.  
  
"She had a cut above her eye today," I tell him. "Cora said she was trying to climb out of the crib and fell, but I'm not sure I believe her."  
  
"You think someone there hurt her?" he asks, as if he never imagined that was a possibility. Considering his own childhood, I'm surprised he's so naive.  
  
"Didn't you ever notice the home kids when we were in school? They always had marks on their faces."  
  
He grows quiet, and I clench my fists in frustration. It's a terrible feeling, being helpless. I hate it.  
  
"We could get married," Peeta says suddenly, and I nearly fall out of my chair.  
  
" _What_?"  
  
"If we got married, we'd be eligible to adopt. We could bring L here to live with us."  
  
I try to find something to say, anything but another repeat of  _what_ , but I can't think of a single word. Certainly not yes. But I'm just as reluctant to say no.  
  
The front bell rings and I use it as an excuse to escape, leaping from my seat to race out of the room. Prim's waiting for me on the other side of the counter. She pushes back her hood and unbuttons her heavy sweater, still necessary in late March. "Hi," she says meekly.  
  
"Hi," I manage. I'm not sure what language I'm speaking. I don't know if anyone can understand what I'm saying. I feel light-headed and tired, and all I can hear is Peeta saying,  _We could get married_.  
  
"I'm sorry, Katniss," Prim says tearfully. "I wish I could do something else to help you with L."  
  
"Don't cry, Prim," I say, trying to focus on her. "You don't have anything to be sorry about."  
  
She pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and dabs it under her eyes, which light up as she looks over my shoulder. "Hello, Peeta."  
  
"Hi, Prim," he says kindly. "I hear congratulations are in order."  
  
She averts her gaze as her cheeks flush. "Thank you."  
  
Peeta moves next to me, and I tense up as he nears, instinctively stepping away from him. I see the hurt flash on his face, and Prim doesn't miss it either. "Is everything okay?" she asks, looking between the two of us.  
  
He shrugs off any pain with a light laugh. "Oh, she's just a little skittish because I proposed."

She must think it’s a joke, too. There’s a hint of a smile when she asks, “You proposed?”

“Just a few minutes ago in the back. It was  _very_  romantic.” I can feel him looking at me now, trying to catch my eyes. “I haven’t heard an answer, though.”

I head into the kitchen area again, annoyed by such a ludicrous suggestion. They both follow me, and Prim seems to be on the same page now. “So you could adopt L,” she says. “You know, that could actually work.”

I can’t believe she sees any sense in it. It’s a crazy idea. My expression reflects my thoughts, and she bristles as I stare her down.

“What?” she asks innocently. “I think it’d be the best thing for her to be with you. She’s crazy about you.”

“I know it’s extreme, getting married, but you’re already living with each other. And most of the district thinks you’re together anyway-”

“Prim,” Peeta gently interrupts. “Maybe we should talk about this more later. Give her some time to think it over.”

She agrees with a nod as she buttons up her sweater again. “Alright. Well, you know where to find me.” She says goodbye with a sweet smile, and after she’s gone, I turn to Peeta to glare at him.

“Do you even realize what you’re suggesting?”

“Yes, and I considered it carefully in the last five minutes.” I emit what can only be described as something like a growl, and Peeta tosses down the dishtowel he was clutching and sighs in frustration. “I know I just blurted it out,” he says quietly. “And I know what it means. But I want to help her too, Katniss. And most of all, I want you to be happy. I know how you feel about her. I’ve seen your face light up when you talk about her! She should be with you.”

“She would have to be with you, too, though. Don’t you get that? This isn’t just about me. You’d be tied to us for the rest of your life. This would be forever.”

“I know that’s not what you want,” he says softly, and I want to correct him, because  _he_  never wanted this either. At least not with me. But I wait for him to continue, too curious to hear what he’ll say next. “But if you decide it’s the best option, and you want her here with us, then know I’ll do whatever I can to protect her, too.”  
  
He brushes his hand through his hair, mussing the waves he combs so carefully in the morning. “Katniss, I promise…I would never be like my mother,” he tells me.  
  
“Peeta, I never thought you would be.”  
  
He seems relieved by my response, which is the absolute truth. There are a million things I’m not sure about and worried over when even considering this, but Peeta’s capability as a father isn’t one of them. He would be amazing with her, if she gave him a chance.  
  
“You’d have your work cut out for you just to get her to let you near her,” I say with a smile.  
  
He smiles, too. “Guess I’d just have to be patient and try to win her over.”  
  
It’s getting hard not to imagine it, which feels like an indulgence I shouldn’t allow. But if we pulled it off and the adoption was approved, she might actually have a nice life with us here. I never really gave much thought to the future before, but now I can almost see one, and she’s in it. Peeta, too. I don’t want to consider any kind of tomorrow if he’s not involved.  
  
“Well, we both know the truth about her,” I say. “There’s probably some good in that.”  
  
He’s watching me intently, seeing that I’m warming to the proposal. “Yeah. Definitely.”  
  
“Are you sure?” I ask somewhat desperately. “I mean,  _really_  sure?”  
  
He answers with an unequivocal yes, and I’d give just about anything to have some of that confidence right now.  
  
“She’d be with us all the time,” I remind him. “It’s going to be a lot of work raising her. Nothing about it will be easy.”  
  
“I know that. The timing is actually great, if you think about it. What else were we going to do once we finished the plant book?”  
  
I don’t fall for that smile this time, and I scowl at him to let him know now is not a time to joke. This is all so much, and it’s happening so fast. I’m trying hard to not feel completely overwhelmed. So I take a deep breath and consider it one more time.  
  
“Okay,” I tell him. “I’ll marry you.”

  
  
**xxXXxx**

 

  
We agree to keep the news to ourselves for awhile. Peeta tells me that it’s okay if I change my mind, and I wonder constantly if he’ll change his.  
  
But it’s surprisingly easy to continue on just as we were since the engagement. We still work together on the plant book each evening, with Peeta painting the final pages of the entries as I supervise. We eat all our meals together, and when I’m not out in the woods hunting, enjoying the warm spring weather, I help him with the bakery.

At night, instead of trading stories while lying in bed, we now share our plans. There’s a thirty day minimum wait between filing marriage papers and an adoption request. “We should do this as quickly as possible,” I tell him. “We need to get her out of there soon.”

I visit the home every day. As I sing L to sleep, tracing the curve of her cheek as her eyes flutter closed, I worry as I always do about what it’s like for her when she wakes up in a dark room all alone. I worry that she thinks I won’t come back, my whispered promise falling on sleeping ears. I worry that she’ll be upset with me for leaving her, even if it’s not my choice to do it.

But today, after I place her back in her crib and tuck Daisy next to her, I realize that there’s going to come a time when I’m with her when she sleeps and when she wakes, and that she’ll never have to wonder where I’ve gone because she’ll always know I’m right beside her.  
  
I shut the door quietly behind me and spot Cora across the room. She sees me and turns away, so I march determinedly toward her, wishing I had my bow with me so I could make my threat a good one. “Cora,” I growl, grabbing her elbow to spin her around to face me. “We need to talk.”

“I’m busy.”

“You’ll make time for this. I want you to know that I’m watching you. And other people are watching you. If you touch any child here, if you so much as look at them the wrong way, I’ll find out and you’ll be sorry.”

She pulls her arm out of my grasp. “I already got that message from the Peacekeeper you’ve got in your pocket. Now leave me alone so I can do my job.”

She flounces off, leaving me perplexed. What would Darius know about this? The only other person I told my suspicions to was…

“Peeta,” I whisper, remembering a couple nights ago when he left with two loaves of raisin nut and returned home an hour later with only one.

I skip my visit to Prim in favor of returning to the bakery early. It’s quiet inside, not a single customer browsing at the moment, so I duck into the back where he’s working. “Did you bribe Darius with bread so he’d warn Cora?”

He looks up from the cake he’s icing. “Hello to you, too. And I didn’t have to bribe Darius with anything. He was more than happy to do that.”

At this moment, I’m so incredibly happy that he’s the person in on this with me. “Here I thought my threatening her would be enough.”

“Well, you’re definitely scarier than Darius, that’s for sure.”

We share a smile and I resist the urge to wrap my arm around him as he works. “Thank you,” I say instead, the words surprisingly easy to utter. “For always keeping your head and knowing the best thing to do.”

He looks over at me, that soft smile growing a little wider. He’s about to say something when we’re interrupted by Prim, who pokes her head in and apologizes for interrupting us. “I’m on my way back from the Undersee’s. I figured you stopped by and saw I wasn’t at the shop.”

“Should we tell her our news?” Peeta asks me in a mock whisper.

We already agreed I’d tell Prim today, and once Prim knows, everyone else will know soon after. “We want to adopt L,” I tell her.

She knows exactly what this means, and she squeals like a child as she rushes toward us, her arms outstretched. Once she releases us, she pulls back and grins. “You should have a toasting! I can plan everything.”

I immediately notice the way Peeta’s face falls, and he’s shaking his head as she’s still rambling about details. “Prim, no. That’s not necessary, really.”

“Everyone has a toasting,” I say quietly. “It’d go a long way in convincing other people this was real.”

That’s the part we both fully understood, or so I thought. That if we’re going to do this, no one except those closest to us should know that we’re not actually together. It has to appear genuine to everyone else because you can’t deceive the Capitol in any way without risking its wrath. You just can’t.  
  
“We don’t need a toasting,” he says, an edge of finality to his words. “We’ll sign all the papers and file for adoption, but we don’t need to do a toasting. That’s just a silly tradition.”

That’s an outright lie on his part. Peeta respects everything about a toasting, and I don’t believe for a second that he never thought about his own, even if it was as simple as wondering which kind of bread he would use.

Or, I realize, he’s given plenty of thought about his toasting, imagining how every part of the day played out. But I wouldn’t be the one at the hearth with him. Now I know why he doesn’t want to do that with me. Because I’m not Madge.

I step away from him, inexplicably hurt by this, even if I know I shouldn’t be. Prim tries to compensate for the sudden awkwardness by announcing that she’ll get us a present. “That I insist on,” she says.

She squeezes my hand on her way out, and promises to meet with me later to discuss the details. We were planning on going to the Justice Building in a week or two, trying to move things along as quickly as possible so we can file for adoption. That’s what all of this is about, after all.

Prim leaves and we’re both quiet. Eventually the silence dies off as the hours pass, and he asks me about my day and tells me about his. We eat dinner. We work on the plant book. We go to bed.

Our routine is the same but something’s different now and we can both feel it. There’s a wall up that wasn’t there before.

  
  
**xxXXxx**   
  


Prim and Bryce tell us about our wedding present a day before we’re supposed to sign the papers at the Justice Building. Their gift is our dining table, the one we delayed the second half of the payment on so we could buy things for children at the home. I tell her it’s far too much, and Peeta echoes my words, but they both insist that they want us to have it. It’ll be delivered in a few days, Prim says.  _After_.  
  
My mother brings another gift the next day, hours before we’re to be married in the eyes of the Captiol. When she arrives, my palms are slick and I’ve just counted my heartbeats in the last minute in order to calm down. I’m almost grateful that she’s dropped by. Right now, any distractions are welcome.  
  
She comes bearing a soft green dress that she’s had since before running off with my father. The dress is still in excellent condition, having been carefully tucked away for years. I’ve been second-guessing everything all day, and it’s resulted in me being in a terrible mood that reaches its pinnacle when she hands it me. I remember being a young girl in the cold rain, clutching Prim’s old baby cloths, which were nothing more than tattered rags at that point. What would this have fetched at the Hob?  
  
“I want you to have something nice to wear today,” she says as she presents it to me. “I think the only other dress you have is the one I gave you to wear to the reaping.” She looks weepy and wistful, like a mother in need of a heartfelt talk on this important day, and I don’t have the patience for it. So I do what I’ve been telling myself to do this whole time in order to stay collected: I think of L.

“Thank you,” I tell her coolly, taking the dress from her. I dismiss her offer to help me with my hair and she takes the hint, saying she should start home then.

I take a long bath, and then I braid my own hair with shaking fingers. After changing into the dress, I go to the kitchen and sit at our old folding table. The clock is ticking so loudly that my head aches. I try to hear past its annoying clicks to listen for Peeta, but there’s no sound of him.

When I can’t stand it anymore, I head down to the bakery to see what’s keeping him. He’s in the back, hunched over the table as he works diligently at something, but I can’t see around his broad back to know what. “We have to leave in half an hour.”

It was meant to be a gentle reminder, but he startles suddenly and something crashes to the floor. He curses under his breath and turns to glare at me, and I step back in surprise. My first instinct is to tell him it’s his own damn fault that happened, but it’s so rare to see Peeta upset that it throws me. All I manage is a weak, “I’m sorry.”

I look down to see what fell. It was a small cake that’s now a big mess, with cream colored frosting splattered across the tile. I didn’t realize he’d be filling orders right now. I crouch down to clean it up, careful to not get anything on my mother’s dress, but he stops me. “I’ll do it,” he says softly.

“Who was it for?” I ask, worrying that he’ll upset a customer.

“Us,” he sighs. “You. For today, and your birthday next week. I thought we could at least have a small cake.”

“Oh.”

I leave him alone to take care of it, feeling as confused as ever. Now I feel like we can’t do this soon enough, like I just want to get it over with. It’s the wait that’s making it worse. Each minute ticking buy, the seconds counting down...it’s a slow torture.

Peeta cleans up the ruined cake and then goes to get ready, and I stay by the front entrance so we can go as soon as he returns. I hear him on the stairs, his tread as heavy as ever, and when I turn to see him, I’m surprised by how nice he looks. He’s wearing a white collared shirt- one of I’ve never seen before- but he’s still rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. I want to pay him a compliment, but he beats me to it, smiling as he looks me over for what seems like the first time that day.

“You look beautiful,” he says. I don’t know what to do with words like that, but I guess it’s expected on days like this.

“My mother brought the dress. It used to be hers.”

“Looks like it was made for you though.”

“Well, you look nice, too.” This is exactly the kind of thing I’m not good at, and I’ve practically got one foot out the door already.

“Katniss,” he says, gently taking my hand and turning me around. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“I’m sorry that you have to do this. I’m...I’m sorry I ruined our cake.”

“Peeta-”

“I never want you to have to do something you don’t want to,” he finishes.

“Peeta,” I say, more firmly this time. “Remember- for L.”

“For L,” he repeats.

He still has my hand in his as we leave the bakery and walk to the Justice Building. It’s a beautiful day out, the sun warming our skin as birds chirp in the distance. We don’t say anything, but my hold on him tightens as we near our destination.

I let Peeta do all the talking, and he tells the clerk that we have an appointment to sign marriage papers today. The woman leads us to another chamber where an elderly man is sitting at a huge wooden desk. He smiles kindly, standing to greet us. “Peeta and Katniss,” he says, looking over the papers in front of him. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, sir,” Peeta smiles. He squeezes my hand as reassurance, or maybe as a reminder. I force a smile too, quietly whispering another thanks.

The man hands us the paper and asks us to read it over. I lean against Peeta to see the page better, but really it’s so he can bear the brunt of my weight now because I feel dizzy. I barely skim the words. It’s something about the promise to ourselves and Panem, that we vow to stay together for all days, and to offer any children produced by our union to the reaping. I try not to blanch at that word,  _reaping_. I can’t even think about that right now.

“Sign here,” he instructs us, and I let Peeta use the pen first. He hands it to me after he’s written his name in elegant curves just above the line. Then I sign too, hoping that my usually steady hand doesn’t betray me now.

“Congratulations,” he says again after, and Peeta and I just look at each other.

“That’s it?” I ask.

The man laughs as he signs his name on the line just below ours. “That’s it. I’ll send in the form for your name change, and by this time next week you’ll be Katniss Mellark.”

As I process what he just said, the smile on the man’s face drops, his expression transforming into concern as he looks at me. “Are you alright?”

Peeta’s at my side, his arm around me to hold me up. “Katniss?” he whispers.

I can feel a tear rolling down my cheek, and I want to tell them both no, that I can do all of this but not change my name. Katniss  _Everdeen_. That’s who I am. Katniss Mellark sounds like a stranger.

Prim changed her name. All women do. It’s tradition. If my mother were to marry Winston, which she just might, she’d change hers again, too. And that would mean that the Everdeen name died with my father. There’d be none of us left.

“It’s an emotional day,” Peeta says, brushing my tears away in a gesture that’s so lovely I notice it even in this haze.

I stand up straighter, coming back to my senses.  _For L. For L._

“That’s understandable,” the man says. Now that the mood seems to have lightened again, he takes the paper we’ve both signed and folds it up. “This is where I tell the couple to seal the deal with a kiss.” His smile is back as he looks to us, waiting expectantly.

I can feel Peeta tense up next to me, and I want to tell him that it’s okay, to just kiss me so we can go, but I feel frozen in my spot. I manage a nod, almost imperceptible to anyone not paying much attention, but it seems to be the signal Peeta was waiting for.

He leans down to press his lips to the corner of my mouth, just catching the spot under my nose. I blink and it’s done, he’s drawing back. That wasn’t much of a kiss, I think quickly. It was hardly a peck, and it wouldn’t be convincing to anyone.

I pull him in, determined to do this right. With my hand on the back of his neck, I guide him toward my mouth, touching my lips to his. His warm breath tickles me as he exhales, pulling away ever so slightly before leaning back in. This time his lips mold to mine in a new way, as if they were parts always meant to fit together.

All I can register is what my senses take in: the smell of his soap, the firmness of his kiss, the heat of his skin against my palm. My lips part to move with his, my arms around him tightening. He lifts his hands to cradle my jaw, and the tips of his fingers slide through my hair, catching in my braid.

I barely hear the faint sound of laughter in the background, but he says, “Okay, you two, that’s enough.” He has to repeat it again before we release each other, both of us breathless.

I don’t know what got me so carried away, and I keep my head down as we walk out of the Justice Building because I’m embarrassed. He offers his hand but I don’t trust myself enough to take it. We make our way back to the bakery in silence, not talking and definitely not touching.

Peeta does his best to keep things light, but I can barely look at him without remembering the scorching heat of his mouth. He gives up trying to have a conversation during dinner, and the last thing he says to me in the kitchen is another mumbled apology over our fallen cake.

I’m thankful for nightfall, for the chance to put this day and all its confusion behind us. But Peeta stops at my door rather than following me to bed.

“It’s funny, huh?” he says.

“What’s funny?”

He slips his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “Here we are, married, and now it feels wrong to sleep in the same bed.”

I raise my eyebrows at this, because I never considered not having him next to me tonight. “I think I should sleep in my room from now on,” he says, sounding almost remorseful.

“Fine,” I say, hurrying into my bedroom and shutting the door behind me. I pull off the green dress and slip on his stupid old robe, and then I fall back onto my mattress and stare up at the ceiling.

My throat tightens with tears, but I don’t feel like I have the energy to cry. Everything about life right now is exhausting. Even sleep seems like too much effort.

‘For L,’ I repeat until the night’s shadow stretches across the walls and shrouds the room in total darkness.

_For L._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've reached the conclusion to the first half of this story, wooo! The next chapter will pick up after the prologue.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I'm on tumblr as everlarkeologist if you want to stop by and say hello.


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